


Building Love Takes Years, Especially When You Have A Secret

by 2am_Writing_Addict



Category: Newsies (1992), Newsies - All Media Types, Newsies!: the Musical - Fierstein/Menken
Genre: Big Brother Jack Kelly, Boys In Love, Boys Kissing, Canon Era, Falling In Love, Fighting, Hurt Racetrack Higgins, Hurt Spot Conlon, Hurt/Comfort, I Wrote This Instead of Sleeping, Internalised Transphobia, Italian Racetrack Higgins, Jack Kelly & Spot Conlon Rivalry, Jack Kelly Is A Mum, Misunderstandings, Multi, Period-Typical Homophobia, Secret Relationship, Serious Injuries, Slow Burn, Spot Conlon/Racetrack Higgins-centric, Trans Male Character, Trans Spot Conlon, Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-06
Updated: 2020-10-18
Packaged: 2021-03-08 09:07:40
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 16
Words: 61,865
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26849416
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/2am_Writing_Addict/pseuds/2am_Writing_Addict
Summary: When Race is soaked for selling in Brooklyn, he expects Spot to throw him out and kill him if he returns. He doesn’t expect it to be the beginning of a love story. After all, boys can’t love boys.————Or the story of how, despite everything, Race and Spot fell in love as the seasons passed.————Please read the trigger warnings, this gets dark at parts (but that dark parts are sprinkled between tons of cuteness)Constant TW: Homophobia, Internalised Transphobia.TW in some chapters only (they will be mentioned in the notes at the beginning of each chapter): Injuries, Fighting, Eating Disorder, Vomiting
Relationships: Kid Blink/Mush Meyers, Spot Conlon/Racetrack Higgins
Comments: 50
Kudos: 93





	1. Summer 1897

**Author's Note:**

> Race and Spot meet for the first time but frankly, Race has had better first meetings.
> 
> TW: Fighting, Vomiting, Homophobia
> 
> The appearances are based on the 1992 movie but I took stuff from the musical too. If you haven’t watched the movie, all you need to know is Spot has long blond hair, Race has short brown hair, and Sarah is Davey’s sister (And the strike happens differently but it won’t affect your understanding).
> 
> Also don’t bind like Spot does! Never bind with ace bandages because they can seriously hurt you and never bind for more than eight hours. In Spot’s defence, it’s the 1890s so he doesn’t know all this

Race may have been a Manhattan newsies but he had had his eyes on a selling spot in Brooklyn for years. The moment that the railroad station closest to bridge was linked up to a station near Sheepshead Bay, he began to make plans to secure the selling spot for his own. He knew he could give out betting tips to sell more papers, and there was definitely no Brooklyn newsies currently selling there, so one morning he grabbed his papers and set off for the Sheepshead Bay Race Track.

The morning had gone better than well. After successfully not buying a ticket and selling a large number of his papers on the train, he had arrived and he had sold out of his papers in record time. He hadn’t quite figured out how to get the afternoon edition without being caught by the Brooklyn newsies but, with the amount of papers he sold in a single morning, he wouldn't have to bother trying to, he could simply return to Manhattan and sell in a bad but unused spot there. Dropping his final coins into his pocket—which was satisfyingly full thanks to his betting tips being particularly good—he headed off back to Manhattan. Jumping from the train, he took off for the bridge. Darting through the crowded streets, he sped around a corner and slammed into a wall. Jumping back in shock, his head snapped up.

“You ain’t Brooklyn.” The wall was barely a kid anymore, probably only a few months from aging out, and heavily built. He likely sold outside a factory somewhere, a scarred eye and a towering frame tend to encourage the ladies to find a smaller newsies to buy from, but every newsies knows that there is less money to be made by the factories. Race sent up a silent prayer to anyone who could be listening that he didn’t decide to top up his earnings with Race’s coins.

“No I ain’t.”

“Then what you’d doin’ ‘ere?” The wall moved forwards, blocking out the midday sun with his mass.

“I’m sellin’, can’t you see that with those eyes of yours?” Race swore at his own inability to keep his mouth shut. Both of the boy’s eyes were undamaged despite the scarring however in hindsight, it was probably a bit of a sensitive topic. This hindsight kicked in less than a second after the last word came out and was most definitely brought about by a fist to the jaw.

————

Race often woke up in odd places but he always woke up either inside or in puddle. Usually the odd place was on a bench in a bar (with a very warm jacket belonging to the bartender draped over him) or on a sofa belonging to someone he was playing poker with the night before. Waking up outside without instantly spitting out mud was a new one.

He was sitting propped up against something, his lower arm leaning against rough, splintery wood and a nail head prodding into his lower back, so he guessed a crate of some form. He shifted his jaw as he breathed and a splitting pain shot through his jaw. He jerked his head in pain and was hit by a second wave, spilling up from the back of his head and into his throat. He threw up into his mouth, choking until unnoticed hands pushed him down and he vomited into a bucket. The hands pulled him back to the crate and he sagged against it, pain weighing him down.

“What the ‘ell was yous thinkin’? He’s half ya size, couldn’t ya just ‘ave carried ‘im ‘ere? Kelly ain’t gonna let this drop if he don’t walk outta ‘ere in one piece. He’ll bring it up every time he wants somethin’ fa the next year.”

“Kelly ain’t Brooklyn, it don’t matter what he says”

“It matters ta me. I gotta listen ta ‘im.”

The voice weren’t the voices of any of the Manhattan newsies but Race sent his second prayer to anyone listening that the Kelly they were taking about was Jack. After all, only newsies know Jack as Kelly instead of Sullivan. With a final wish for good luck, Race let his eyes flicker open, the flashes of light stabbing into his head in like shards of glass as he forced them to say open.

He was on the Brooklyn docks, an area well known to belong to the Brooklyn newsies from the first glimpse of summer sun, and it seemed that half of Brooklyn was there. The group was curving round him, the wall of a boy whom had confronted Race stood in the middle, a hint of fear in his eyes.

The crate that Race was leaning against was one of a stack.

His eyes slowly wondered to the top, as if they were trying to procrastinate confirming his prediction.

And then his eyes reached the top and he was staring at Spot Conlon, the most feared newsie in New York City. His feet dangled down the edge of the crate, the famous gold tipped cane balanced on his lap and his pink suspenders curling over his shoulders. With Brooklyn’s weapon of choice, a slingshot, on his waist and the Brooklyn Key hanging against his red shirt, there could be no doubt about where his priorities lay. A grey hat sat on his head until the wind picked up and he pulled it off, letting the wind slick back his golden blond hair. The evening sun shone down on him until his hair glowed like a halo and...

Race swore at himself, dragging his eyes away from Spot and back to the crowd.

“Yous finally awake then,” There was another internalised swear as Race looked back up, and tried forget the exact way his voice sounded. Spot was looking down from his perch now and Race forced himself not to look away. His problems were his problems, he couldn’t insult the King of Brooklyn because of them. “You ain’t lookin’ good.”

“I ain’t feelin’ good.” He choked out. “I ain’t realised I look bad too”

Spot scoffed and looked back up the crowd yet, despite his dismissal, Race swore he could see a hint of a smirk on his lips.

“Nickel, Dime,” A set of twins stepped forward, simultaneously brushing their curly black hair out of their eyes. “Go ta ‘Hattan and make sures Kelly ain’t gonna send no kid out lookin’ for ‘im. Tell ‘im we’ll send ‘im back in the mornin’.”

“Any particular reason why you ain’t lettin’ me go?” Race forced his face to stay neutral but his mind was racing through terrifying possibilities of what the night could hold. He didn’t believe the torture rumours but he was just told that he couldn’t leave. Spot stared at him as if he was stupid.

“‘Cause you just threw up. I send you back to ‘Hattan in this state, Kelly’ll never let me ‘ear the end of it. This way, he can’t say I didn’t try ta help ya next time I want inta ‘Hattan.”

Race didn’t believe the torture rumours and, when the Manhattan newsies will question him later, he’ll deny that it ever crossed his mind.

“Stitch,” Spot continued, “Get ‘im back ta the lodging house and settle ‘im in my room.”

“Your room?” The thin boy, who had stepped forward when Spot had said his name, asked with confusion plastered over his face.

“You ain’t soft fa ‘im are ya?” A voice yelled from the crowd, which spun to look at one particularly rough looking kid and then fell silent, glancing between the young king and the older barbarian.

Spot didn’t speak, just pushed himself off the tower of crates and fell to the ground. His cane in his hand, he walked calmly to the older boy, the ocean of kids parting before him, and stopped in front of him.

“You ain’t denying nothin’ so-”

The boy’s sentence was cut off as Spot twirled his cane in his hand and swung, the air cracking as it swished forwards and cracked into the boy’s head. He dropped like a stone, scurrying to his feet and staggering backward, spitting blood as he went.

“Get.”

The boy staggered back more but made no move to run.

“Get the fuck outta ‘ere.” Spot’s voice was cold and emotionless as he drew back his cane. The boy glanced at the cane, eyes wide, and ran, shoving through the crowd and out of the docks.

“Any of yous got anythin’ else ta say?” The crowd was silent, the sound of the cane still ringing through the air. Spot turned back to Stitch. “Yeah my room. I leave ‘im in the dorm and someone might be stupid enough ta finish the job. Kelly really ain’t gonna like that.”

And with that, he snatched his hat off the top crate and left. The crowd was silent for a minute then, group by group they dispersed, some heading further into Brooklyn and others scattering along the docks. Despite the normal actions, the atmosphere was tense as the remaining newsies struck up quiet conversations. One such conversation walked its way over to where Race was still sat.

“I’m just sayin’, Spot ain’t ever ‘it a Brooklyn newsie like that before.” Stitch was talking, boy with smooth, short brown hair, by his side.

“He’s soaked lotsa newsies,”

“Only when theys tryin’ ta soak ‘im,”

“True but that don’t mean nothin’.” The boy waved his hand dismissively as he spoke.

“It means he found it insultin’.”

“Or he was tryin’ ta stay alive.”

“True,” Stitch sighed, “So we got nothin’.”

“Not true. Yous gotta job ta do.”

“We’ve gotta job ta do.”

“Spot didn’t ask me, but I’ll help ya anyways.”

Stitch laughed as the boy bumped him with his elbow, the two of them shoving back and forth as they crossed the small distance over to Race.

“Ready to move, ‘Hattan?” Stitch asked, holding out a hand. Race nodded and let himself get pulled to his feet, stubbornly ignoring the way the world spun around him. “I’m Stitch and this is Fancy”

“Fancy?” That certainly wasn’t the name that Race would have guessed for the short, heavy set, Brooklyn boy.

“My accen’ was really fancy when I joined ‘em,” Fancy answered with a laugh.

Stitch and Fancy flanked Race and, with one of Race’s arms over each of their shoulders, they began their walk to the lodging house.

“So ‘Hattan,” Fancy asked. “What ya doin’ in Brooklyn?”

“Sellin’ at Sheepshead Bay Racetrack. And the name’s Racetrack, but everyone calls me Race.” Stitch snorted with laughter until Race snapped. “What?”

“Going ta the races ain’t going too well for ya, is it ‘Hattan?”

The three laughed and the conversation flowed at a steady pace as they made their way to the lodging house.

————

Race wasn’t the first Manhattan newsies to set foot inside of the Brooklyn boarding house, all winter business took place there, but even the description Jack had given him was nothing compared to the real thing. The main room, which was also the main bunk room, was packed with newsies of all age and it was loud. Painfully so.

As the throbbing of his head intensified, the room span and Race bit his tongue to keep from crying out, wishing that he could somehow skip the torturous journey they were making. A dizzying glance to the side showed him Spot, seated in a throne-like red armchair with a little on his lap. The little held a newspaper and was reading with a form of success, Spot prompting occasionally. This Spot was a far cry from the cold leader on the docks and yet Race had little doubt that this Spot was the one most Brooklyn newsies saw. After all, every newsies in New York knows that the Brooklyn newsies were more loyal to Spot that could ever be achieve through fear. Respect maybe, but not fear. And then Spot was gone, hidden behind the crowds of newsies and Race was just a few dizzying steps from the door at the end of the room.

The door didn’t lead directly to Spot’s room, there was a short, and thankfully far quieter, corridor between them. By the time the door of Spot’s room shut, the noise of the main room was inaudible, prompting a sigh of relief.

“If yous in that much pain, ya shoulda said something’, we coulda got ‘em quiet.” Fancy laughed at Stitch’s words, who quickly corrected himself. “Well Spot could’ve anyway.”

Fancy lent over and whispered to Stitch, who whispered back. The conversation lasted just a few seconds before Fancy tipped his hat and vanished.

“Imma check yous ain’t gonna bleed out on us,” Stitch explained as he guided Race to a sitting position on the bed and began to examine the wound on the back of his head.

Fancy reappeared for a moment, barely noticed by Race, then left and returned with a wet cloth and some bandages. A few painful minutes late, Race had had his wound cleaned and bandaged and had been positioned under the sheets, curled into a ball to hide from the splitting pain. The hand on his shoulder vanished after a minute or two, then the door closed and the room was silent.

The silence drew on as he lay motionless, only broken by Race’s shaky breaths. He shifted once but only once, the spike in pain simply wasn’t worth it. If someone had asked him, he wouldn’t have been able to say how much time had past. He just lay there. At some point, his eyes had closed but when he recognised this and reopened them, it was dark outside. There was nothing to see but he tried to keep them open; there was a nagging voice telling him that he should stay awake in case the bed’s owner wanted him to move, not that his brain was awake enough to remember quite who the bed’s owner was. His attempt to keep his eyes open failed and just as he was on the edge of sleep, the door opened.

Whoever had entered the room had a lamp, the light flicking over the dark walls as they moved. With a clatter of metal against wood, the lamp stopped moving.

“Yous still awake?”

Race shot up at Spot’s voice, suddenly aware that he was curled up in the King of Brooklyn’s bed, but a hand stopped his ascent.

“Yous ain’t movin’-” Spot’s firm grip pushed Race back down “-until I know yous ain’t gonna throw up again.”

“Might not,” Race mumbled, looking up in shock when Spot chuckled briefly in response.

“I ain’t lettin’ ya find out in my bed.” Race took the risk and let himself laugh, sighing in relief when a smile twitched on Spot’s lips. “So, what’s the name?”

“Racetrack fa long and Race fa short.”

“Odd name for a ‘Hattan newsie,” Spot commented in lieu of a question.

“Been lookin’ ta sell at Sheepshead since I became a newsie.”

“And the new railroad made it possible.”

“That’s right.”

There was a beat of silence then Spot spoke.

“Shift over.”

“I can take the floor if ya want me to. I shoulda asked.” Despite Spot rejecting Race’s attempt to leave, he still wanted to give Spot the chance to reclaim his bed.

“Fancy asked for ya. There ain’t a reason not ta share.”

“Just checkin’.” Race shifted, settling closer to the wall. He watched as Spot put out the lamp and the room was plunged into darkness.

The bed shifted as Spot lay down and, after a minute of shifting, they both lay curled away from the other. Race was the first to drift off, exhausted by the events of the day.

————

Spot lay, staring out into the dark room, until Race’s breathing evened out. Slowly and carefully as to not disturb Race, he reached back and tugged at the tight knots in the fabric around his chest until they came undone, breathing a deep sighed in relief when the fabric cage loosened. He didn’t dare leave the fabric in its usual resting place under his pillow so he left it draped across his chest.

If he had trusted someone with his secret and they had asked, he wouldn’t have been able to explain why he had let Race stay in his room. Maybe it was the cheeky comments or the fact that Race wasn’t terrified of him like every other newsie outside of Brooklyn was. Spot wouldn’t have been surprised if Race was beyond terrified of him considering his actions. He had never hit a newsie outside of a fight before and doing so must have made him seem like a monster. In truth, Soaker’s words had hit a little close to home and he had panicked. Spot tried to push the thoughts out of his mind but as he fell asleep, one thought bubbled up time and time again.

I’m just a girl who wants to be a boy yet I can’t even do that right. What sort of boy wants to kiss boys?

————

Race woke up to the first rays of sunlight but Spot was already gone, only faint traces of warmth showed that he had slept in the bed at all. Staggering to his feet, Race grinned at the lack of dizziness despite the throbbing pain on the back of his head. Before he had time to worry about what the next stage in the “I just woke up in the King of Brooklyn’s bed” morning routine was, the door opened to reveal Fancy.

“Mornin’ ‘Hattan, there’s two kids ‘ere ta see ya.”

“Kids gotta name?” Race asked as they began to make their way towards the main room.

“Didn’t catch ‘em.”

Their entrance into the main room was hardly unnoticed, the gaggle of kids parting to let them through. The throne-like red armchair was a lot more imposing without a little sitting in it. Spot sat like a king who knows that he holds all the cards: reclining slightly, one elbow resting on the arm of the chair, and the other lying flat as to hold his cane just past the end of the arm, the tip occasionally clicking against the floor.

Turning his attention away from Spot, Race grinned at his friends. Mush was the first to turn, relief washing over his face, and Kid Blink turned just a moment later with an almost identical expression.

“Ya see, one piece. Kelly ain’t got nothin’ ta worry ‘bout.” Spot said with a bored voice.

“Aw, yous worried ‘bout me?” Race smirk, as he stepped into the circle of newsies.

“‘Course we’s worried, Race. These two huge Brooklyn boys come in outta nowhere shouting fa Jack and tell ‘im yous in Brooklyn and ain’t gonna be back ‘til tomorrow. No reason, nothin’.” Mush pulled Race into a one armed hug as he spoke, not yanking back as he normally would when Race ruffled up his hair.

“I’s fine, I was just experiencin’ all of Brooklyn’s- ya know the word, when theys bein’ all nice ta ya.”

“Hospitality?”

“Hopitalaty!” Race grinned at Fancy. “Yous really got that name reason, don’t ya.” Race dodged forwards, just avoiding a slap to the back of his head from Fancy. “Watch it, ‘m injured.” Race laughed out as he dodged a second slap.

“Sure, real hospitality yous getting Race.” Blink deadpanned. “Yous got soaked then they tried not ta send ya back.”

“What yous mean?”

“I means Conlon wasn’t telling us where you where. Where they hide ya anyway? The cellar?”

“In the King’s quarters,” Race declared in as posh a voice as he could.

“They ain’t-” “What?!” “-called that.” Blink and Mush yelled, both looking chastised after Spot scowled at them for cutting him off, although Mush wasn’t chastised enough as to hold back his next comment.

“You never told me yous plannin’ ta become a bowery boy.”

“I’d be rich and outta ‘ere in a day if I was but I ain’t nothin’ like that and yous know it. I got soaked by a Brooklyn, Spot didn’t want the Brooklyn finishin’ the soakin’.”

“Ya couldn’t make a dime,” Blink scoffed. “And if ya would be rich, why ain’t all the girls rich?”

“I ain’t sure, I ‘eard they make thirty whole dollars a week.”

There was a pause, like the room was trying to make sense of what they were hearing, then the silence broke into a jumble of disbelief.

“And why-” Spot spoke up, efficiently silencing the room. “-would ya know that?”

“Sometimes the fellas I play poker with joke ‘bout it, ‘ow much they paid ta somethin’ ‘nd all that.”

“Higgins?” A voice from the crowd spoke up. Race turned to look at the speaker, a broad shoulder kid with cropped hair who he knew almost as well as he knew the Manhattan newsies. “I ‘eard there was a ‘Hattan but I didn’t know it was you.”

“Eddie? I thought yous was workin’ in a factory.”

“It’s Ed,” He grumbled. “At least I got the sense ta lie ‘bout my work.” Race scowled in response but he replied was cut off before he could start.

“Ed,” Spot said, an unreadable look on his face. “Since ya know ‘im more than any other Brooklyn newsie, if I let ‘im in Brooklyn, is he gonna cause trouble?”

The room was silent as newsies sent questioning looks back and forth.

“If ya asked me if he was gonna get ‘imself in trouble, I woulda said yes. But no, he ain’t a bad kid, just an nitwit.” Race stared at Ed in shock at the kind words, only snapping back to the room when Spot spoke, an undeniable authority in his voice.

“‘Eres ‘ow it’s gonna be. Racetrack, you can sell in Brooklyn but only on the train and at Sheepshead and yous gotta pay a nickel ta Brooklyn each day. The rest of yous are gonna leave ‘im be, as long as he ain’t sellin’ away from Sheepshead yous are to consider ‘im Brooklyn. Nickel, Dime, spread the news ta the girls, the street newsies, and the other lodging houses once ya ‘ave sold ya mornin’ papes,” The room was silent, in shock at the news.

“For real?” Motionless, Race stared at Spot. At his nod, Race beamed. “Don’t ya worry, Conlon. Ya won’t ‘ave to be chasing those nickels at all. I ain’t givin’ ya a single reason ta take back that offer.”

“Ya betta’ not. Now get outta ‘ere. Ya can start sellin’ in Sheepshead tomorrow.”

“See ya Conlon.” Race bowed dramatically and the trio of Manhattan newsies began to head for the door, Race patting Ed on the shoulder as he passed. “Don’t miss the game on Saturday, Eddie.” He called, dodging under the slap he got as a response. Spinning on his heel, he called out as he walked backwards. “See ya Fancy. Thank for makin’ sure I ain’t bleedin’ out, Stitch.” A laugh rung out from behind him as he spun back around and followed Blink and Mush out of the Lodging House.

————

As the door clanged shut, the room crashed into silence.

Spot sat watching the door through which the fearless bubble of energy had just departed. After a moment, he gathered his senses and pushed himself to his feet, banging his cane off the floor for attention.

“Alright, get outta ‘ere, those papes ain’t gonna sell themselves.”

“Quite right, Spot.” Mrs Kirby commented from the door. “Off you go to breakfast now or else you will be late to the distribution gates.”

Thoughts of Race were not swept away in the rush of newsies.

————

Silence fell over the trio as they headed through the Brooklyn streets, Mush and Blink sending shocked glances at Race as they went. Race fidgeted nervously as the two boys opened and closed their mouths fruitlessly. Eventually Race broke the tense silence.

“Yous gonna say somethin’.”

Neither spoke.

“Penny for the your thoughts?” The humour in Race’s voice did not rise to his eyes.

Blink glanced at Mush then spoke.

“Ya ain’t scared of Spot Conlon.”

“He ain’t nothin’ ta be scared of.”

“He’s King of Brooklyn!” Mush burst out, smashing through the silence of the street.

“So?”

“There ain’t a newsie in New York City who ain’t scared of ‘im, so why ain’t ya?”

“He don’t seem as bad as everyone says,” Race muttered, aware of how weak his response was.

“Why? ‘Cause yous spent the night together?”

Mush’s blunt words echoed around his head as a long, thin weight crashed down over his shoulders, almost knocking him to the ground as his legs buckled. A hand gripped each of his arms before the road could greet him and pulled him away toward the pavement. The walls of the alleyway towered up around them as Race yanked himself free, flinching back from Blink’s outstretched arm and into the unyielding brickwork. Frantic eyes flicked between the two boys as Race tried to plot his escape without harming his friends. Or soon-to-be former friends. Race cried silently, painfully aware of what Blink and Mush believed to have happened during the night and all too aware that nothing he could say would prove any different, and so he mourned the life that he would never return to, even if he should survive the upcoming beating. 

“Hey, breathe, we ain’t gonna soak ya Race.” Race had never heard such softness in Blink’s voice before and, for all it was comforting, it set Race on a knife edge.

“Hey, ‘m sorry, I shoulda been more slow ‘bout it.” Race looked at Mush, taking in his guilt covered features.

“I stayed in ‘is bed, I ain’t sleeping with ‘im.” Barely audible over the noise of the waking city, Race’s voice trembled as he spoke.

“Ok,” Blink said.

“Ok?”

“Ok. If yous sayin’ nothin’ ‘appened, then nothin’ ‘appened.”

Race stared at Blink then at Mush, who simply nodded.

“Yous just droppin’ it?”

“Sure,” Mush cut in. “You know there ain’t nothin’ wrong with it, right? So as long as he ain’t hurtin’ ya, I don’t matter ta me if ya sleepin’ with ‘im or not.” Race stayed silent, motionless. “If you ain’t gonna collapse and get ‘auled off ta the Refuge we better get ta ‘Hattan, Jack’s gonna be worried sick.”

Race nodded mutely and took a step towards, letting Mush and Blink duck under his arms to support him, then the trio made their way back to the street.

“You know ya can tell us anythin’, don’t ya? We ain’t gonna judge ya.”

Race looked at Blink then smiled slightly, happy in the knowledge that they would accept him should he actually find a fella.

“I know.”

The group fell quiet, the silence drawing on as they began to cross the Brooklyn Bridge.

As the group moved forward, the long journey began to take its toll on Race, his headache growing, tangling his legs until he was barely holding his own weight. It was only when they we back on Manhattan soil that Blink spoke again.

“You know Jack is gonna become ya mudda when he sees ya,”

Race groaned, dropping his head forward.

————

“And don’t yous forget that cent ain’t yours. Race’s gonna need those.”

Jack’s words reached the trio as they turned the final corner of their trek back to the lodging house and, despite him heralding the end of their journey, Race sighed dramatically. Mush prodded him gently

“Hey, at least Jack’s gotta sell so he ain’t gonna stay long.”

“Unless he’s ‘ad someone take ‘is papes,” Blink said, smirking.

“Not-” Mush prodded Blink in the side “-helping’.”

Any retaliation that Blink had planned was cut off by Jack.

“Racetrack Higgins,” Jack yelled from the lodging house doorstep, letting the trio reach him before continuing at a more sociable volume. “They soaked ya.” His voice was level, carefully controlled anger evident on his face.

“It ain’t what it seems,” Race tried weakly. Jack looked at him and sighed.

“Tell me inside.”

————

Learning against the headboard of his bunk, Race waited for Jack to return. Blink and Mush had been sent off to sell after Jack had given them the stacks of papers he had saved for them so Race was alone and grateful for the quiet, his head still pounding from the long journey. He let his eyes slip shut. An eternally passed then a door opened. Footsteps walked over to beside the bunk.

“Race?” He looked up at Jack’s worried face. “Shift over.”

Race shifted, feeling the bed dip beside him as Jack sat and slung his arm over his shoulders. He let himself be pulled into the older boy’s side.

“Ok Race, what ‘appened?”

Race sighed the story from the beginning, all the way through his scouting trips to sheepshead, his successful day of selling, the incident with the Brooklyn boy, the time on the docks—although he tactfully left out the vomiting and Spot hitting the Brooklyn boy—a brief account of the evening, and finally the events of the morning—although that was simply the statement:

“And Blink and Mush brought me back. Ya know what ‘appens next.”

“All that fa Sheepshead?”

“I made over a dollar, Jack!” Race beamed. “It’ll be more once I gets my regulars.”

“You ain’t goin’ back.”

“Sure ‘m goin’ back, Spot said Sheepshead’s mine.” There was a pause as Jack frantically processed the news.

“What?” Jack yelled, mouth gaping.

“Sure,” Race did nothing to hide his pride. “I pay a nickel ta Brooklyn each day and I can sell in Sheepshead. They’re ta leave me alone ‘long as I ain’t sellin’ nowhere else.”

“A nickel’s ten whole papes, that’s a lot of money.”

“And I made dimes on tips ‘lone,” Race grinned up at Jack. “Spot got the worse deal ‘ere Jack.”

Jack sighed and ruffed Race’s hair gentle as he stood.

“Fine, but ya come back ‘ere in this state ‘gain, ya ain’t goin’ back.”

“Sure thing Jackie!” Race called as Jack made his way to the door of the main room. “Wait!” Jack turned back. “What was you yellin’ ‘bout me needin’ a cent?”

“I split ya papes up ‘tween every newsie who offered so you’ll get ya full day’s earnin’.” Jack went to leave but turned back. “A lotta people got ya back, Race. Tell one of ‘em if this Brooklyn thing ain’t workin’.”

“I will,” Race smiled then gestures towards the door. “Now get! Ya got papes ta sell.”

“‘M goin’, ‘m goin’,” Jack laughed as the door shut and Race was left alone.

————

Race did not sell in Sheepshead the next day, Jack blankly refused to let him sell at all, and for the two days after, he was confined to Manhattan as Jack used the very effective chain of a little as a selling partner to keep him from straying too far. But finally, after three days of Jack appearing at random times throughout the day and insisting that the head wound be checked in both the morning and the evening, Race was off to Brooklyn with a stack of papers, calling out headlines as he dashed across the bridge, then just running through Brooklyn, only returning to his selling when he was on the train to Sheepshead.

The day sped past, the morning being a mixture of harking headlines and giving out betting tips and the afternoon being some headline harking and a lot of collecting tips from appreciate gentlemen who he had given tips to earlier. Even purchasing his afternoon papers went off without a hitch. Some of the newsies seemed vaguely familiar from the docks but none of them had been at the lodging house in the morning so Race assumed that they all either lived on the streets or had families; there wasn’t a lodging house anywhere near Sheepshead Bay. Although the other newsies watching him cautiously, none of them soaked him and he left unharmed.

It was early afternoon when a figure caught his attention. With a red top and a newsboy hat on their head, the figure was leaning against the wall by the main entrance, eating as they watched Race. When Race turned to look at them properly, they were already leaving, long red hair flicking behind them as they disappeared into the crowd.

————

With a pocket full of coins, Race shot through the streets of Brooklyn, dodging through the crowds as he went. Newsies harking their papers watched as he past and even with the distance between them, Race could see their distrust in their stances and their eyes.

As he slowed and began to quick walk through the docks, a flash of red hair caught his eye. The figure from midday was leaning against the wall of a warehouse, watching a few littler newsies pitching pennies. They looked up at him then called out.

“Hey, ‘Hattan!”

Race paused as the figure approached.

“It’s Race, ain’t it?” 

“That’s me, and yous is?”

“The name’s Flare, ‘m Spot’s right ‘and kid and leader of the Brooklyn Hebrew Orphan Asylum. Thought ya should know me if yous gonna be in Brooklyn more.” Spitting on her hand, she held it out to shake which Race obliged.

“Hebrew Orphan Asylum? Over in ‘Hattan we’s gotta kid from one. He ‘ad ta climb outta window ta escape so hows yous livin’ there and bein’ a newsie?” She laughed.

“‘Hattan ‘as it worse, a kid who was moved ta Brooklyn told us. I use ta sneak out all the time ‘nd they knew but I ain’t falling behind in school so they don’t mind. Made it official ‘nd everythin’. There’s a whole group of us now.”

“Ain’t that a lotta work?”

“Sure, but bein’ a newsie is a lot betta’ than learnin’ ta sew.”

“I ain’t mendin’ ya shirts forever, Flare.” A young shaggy brown haired girl had arrive, tossing her arm over Flare’s shoulder but having to stand on a crate to do so. “Yous Racetrack?”

“Yeah.”

“Name’s Thread. Conlon want ta see ya.” As she spoke, she gestured further into the docks.

“Betta’ go, see yous two around.”

The two dipped their hats as Race began to head in the direction Thread had indicated. Sure enough, Spot was there. Once again, he was sitting high up on the stack of crates but this time other newsies were using the different levels as seats. The group chatted calmly as Race approached. Race watched as Spot spoke up briefly, the group giving him their full attention when he was speaking, then fell silent again as the group chatted on. A newsie, who was leaning back against one of the bottom crates, turned and grinned.

“Looks who finally back,” Fancy called out. “I was startin’ ta think Stitch ain’t as good as he thinks.” Stitch reached down from his perch onto of the crate and prodded him in the neck. “Ow?”

“Nah it wasn’t Stitch,” Race laughed.

“Then what ‘appened?” Spot asked, almost glaring down at Race with a look of what Race interpreted as betrayal, before concluding that he was mistaken. “I ain't ever seen a newsie so ‘appy ‘bout a sellin’ spot then ya don’t show?”

“Jack ‘appened,” Race grumbled then, sensing the group’s confusion, elaborated. “He turns into a mudda when any of us are sick or injured. Missed two sellin’ days and ‘ad to sell in ‘Hattan fa two days.”

“That why he looked close ta tryin’ ta soak us when we said ya ain’t comin’ back?” One of two twins, who Race quickly recognised as Nickel and Dime, spoke up.

“He never said but it ain’t unlikely.” Race laughed then suddenly remembered why he was visiting in the first place. Digging into his pocket, he pulled out a nickel a held it out, bowing dramatically as he declared, “Fa Brooklyn.”

Spot scoffed in such a way that it was almost a laugh and held down his hand, Race reaching up to place the coin into it.

“I betta’ be goin’, I gotta a game ta get ta.” Before he could turn to go, a hand caught his shoulder.

“The game with the fellas ‘as been cancelled,” Ed’s hand left his shoulder as Race turned to look at him. “Anderson ain’t able ta give us the room. Ain’t a reason that I know of. I’m playin’ with some of the newsies instead if ya want to join.” Ed gestured off toward a group of newies sitting on a circle of crates, another crate in the centre acting as a table. Race opened his mouth to respond then paused, suddenly realising that he had no idea if he was allow to say yes.

“Do I want ta join?” He asked, directing the question at Spot.

“I ain’t gotta issue with it but I also gonna stop them soakin’ ya if ya cheat.” Race laughed.

“Then ‘m in. See yous around.” He said to the group as he tipped his hat and followed Ed over to the makeshift table.

————

By the time the group stopped their poker game, the sun was dangerously low in the sky and the group was dangerously close to soaking Race.

Pitch swore viciously as Race revealed his cards.

“Yous gotta be cheating,” He grumbled as Race scooped the pile of coins into his pocket.

“Or maybe-” Race smirked. “-‘M just that good.”

“He ain’t cheating.” Race jumped at the voice behind him, whipping around to see a smug looking Spot.

“How long ‘ave ya been there?” Race cried.

“Ya betta’ thank ‘im,” Arthur piped up. “Knowing he ain’t gonna let ya cheat is the only reason we ain’t soaking ya right now.”

“Well then,” Race grinned as he looked at Spot. “Thanks fa bein’ the reason I ain’t bein’ soaked Spottie.”

“Don’t call me that.” Spot scowled darkly. “And get outta ‘ere.”

Race laughed, dodging away from the cane which Spot prodded in his direction, and called out as he began to jog backwards.

“See ya fellas.”

With a few goodbyes from the group, Spot staying steadfastly silent, Race spun on his heel and ran from the docks. He didn’t slow as he sped through the darkening Brooklyn streets, across the Brooklyn bridge, and along the dark streets of Manhattan.

When he finally reached the Manhattan lodging house, he paid for his bed and quietly ducked into the main room which, to his surprise, wasn’t full of sleeping newsies. It was, however, full of very worried newsies.

“Everythin’ ok?” He ask tentatively.

Every head in the room spun to face him and, before he could react, the nearest newsies barrelled into him, wrapping him into a group hug.

“I’m fine? What ‘appened? Why was yous worried ‘bout me?”

“Why were we worried ‘bout ya?” Jack spluttered, the gaggle of newsies stepping away from Race and parting to let him through. “‘Cause ya didn’t come home?”

“I was playin’ poker.”

“Except ya weren’t were ya? Anderson sent a kid ta say it was cancelled.” Race swore internally, he didn’t expect Anderson to have bother to send a message.

“Ed told me, invited me ta play with some Brooklyn newsies. Didn’t think ya would get a message.”

“Ya played poker with Brooklyn?” Tumbler stared up at Race with awe in his eyes.

“Those Brooklyn newsies ain’t as bad as everyone says, theys just kids.”

Jack sighed at Race’s comment then spoke.

“Alright, he’s in one piece so of ta bed with the lot of ya.”

————

Spot lay in bed staring up at the ceiling. Just thinking. Thinking about Race and that smile which he sent Spot as he thanked him after the poker game. Thinking about the way he grinned with a spark in his eyes and a cheeky comment in his throat. Such as “Spottie”. The way that he had looked him, the most feared newsies in New York City, in the eye and given him a cheeky nickname. Spot sighed. Everything would be so much easier if Race was terrified of him. Then he wouldn't have to justify to himself why he didn’t soak him for the nicknames and the dramatic bows and for pushing his luck by asking to play poker in Brooklyn too. Rolling over, Spot tried to shove thoughts of Race out of his head and fall asleep.

He failed.

————

Race couldn’t sleep. Thoughts of the Spot flowed though his head. Thoughts of the way that he almost laughed when he presented his nickel and thoughts of his expression when he asked why he didn’t come to Brooklyn. The expression that, as Race examined it time and time again, could have only been one thing. Betrayal. Yet that made no sense. It wasn’t as if Spot would care about a few lost cents when he has an army of newsies to support him should he need it. Then he was thinking about Flare and how she was at Sheepshead. Not introducing herself. Just watching. As if she was sent there to watch him or maybe to check if he was there. Race groaned, he was far too tired to figure out the events of the day. Pushing the questions away, he tried to sleep, failing miserably as a torrent of other thoughts rushed through his head. Thoughts about his day and thoughts about Spot. Mostly about Spot.

He finally fell asleep with just a few hours left.


	2. Autumn 1897

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> As Race begins to make his place in Brooklyn, he forgets his place in Manhattan.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TW: child abandonment (very brief mention)
> 
> I should also mention, some of the character ages have been changed to fit the story better. To clarify, both Spot and Race are 14 at the beginning of the story (this is mostly so they are 16 when things start to happen (if you think that was a spoiler, please go back and read the tags))

Race had never particularly cared for autumn. For him, it had always meant colder days and less happy customers, who were always a little tighter with their coins, and worst of all, it meant that winter was growing worryingly close. Winter was the one season that every newsies hated. The bitter cold made customers rush to get off the streets, often without buying a paper at all. Yet this year, unlike all the other autumns Race had spent as a newsie, there was a few glimmers of light in the air. These glimmers did not come without patches of darkness.

Race spent the autumn saving the magnitude of dollars he received as thanks for tips he had given out and by the time the Sheepshead Bay Race Track closed for the year, he had gained enough regular customers as to be able to sell all of his papers just by standing at Sheepshead’s gates.

Race would only meet up with the Brooklyn newsies once a day but he always looked forwards to it. Every evening, he would head down to the docks or to the Brooklyn lodging house to pay his nickel before getting dragged into some form of card or dice game. Some nights a little would drag him away and ask him to help them learn how to do basic maths, which Race had always had a gift for. What Race hadn’t quite worked out was how to balance his time between the two boroughs.

————

“Race?” Jack approached him one night after he had got back late from Brooklyn; Pitch had invited him to a Craps game “We need ta talk.”

“I ain’t the one who took Skittery’s shirt.” Jack looked at him in confusion.

“He found it.” Jack paused. “Why would ya think I thought ya took it?”

“What else would ya be askin’ ‘bout.” Race looked up from checking his cards. “Ain’t nothin’ else ‘appened today.”

Jack sighed, looking around the room and then gesturing towards the door.

“Let’s talk in the penthouse.”

Race shrugged and followed Jack, simultaneously growing more curious and more concerned as he racked his brain for anything he had done that would warrant a private conversation.

————

The streets of New York stretched out below the two boys as they sat with their backs to the lodging house’s chimney. Race gazed out over the streets, past the towers of the Brooklyn Bridge, to the lights of Brooklyn, flicking on and off as people went about their evenings. As he watched, his mind drifted to the Brooklyn lodging house with its rowdy inhabitants and calm, collected leader who barely talked but somehow said everything he needed to. Out of the corner of his eye, he could see Jack watching him.

“This is why we need ta talk.” Race looked over at Jack, confused.

“‘Bout the penthouse.” Jack swatted his arm.

“Not ‘bout the penthouse. ‘Bout Brooklyn.”

“They ain’t hurtin’ me Jack” Race instantly defended.

“I know they ain’t.” Jack soothed. “But yous hurtin’ ‘Hattan when ya stay away so much.” Race went to speak, stopping when Jack held up his hand. “Let me explain? I ain’t gonna make ya choose between ‘em but ya spendin’ so much time there that it almost ain’t worth ya comin’ back. Ya my second Race, I need ya in ‘Hattan.”

Race couldn’t resist the urge to talk.

“I know ‘m ya second but I like spendin’ time in Brooklyn just like I like spendin’ time in ‘Hattan.”

“I know ya do. So how ‘bout this. Twice a week ya can stay in Brooklyn as late as ya want, providin’ ya get back before the lodging house closed fa the night. The rest of the time, ya come back by fa dinner.”

Race paused, thinking over the offer then spat on his hand and offered it to Jack.

“Deal. I’ll come back fa dinner on days it ain’t gross.”

Jack laughed as he spat on his hand and shook hands with Race.

“Guess we ain’t gonna see ya da dinner on Friday then.”

“Correct!” Race faked gaggling. “I ain’t eating fish balls again unless ya force me. ‘M convinced they ain’t even made of fish.”

The two boys laughed and chatted until Jack declared that it was time for bed. As Race headed for the ladder, a thought struck him and he turned back.

“Jack?”

“Hm?”

“Earlier, when ya asked ta talk ta me and I thought ya wanted to get Skittery’s shirt back?”

“What ‘bout it?”

“I said I thought ya were askin’ about the shirt ‘cause nothin’ else ‘appened today and ya sighed.” Race paused then continued hesitantly. “What ‘appened today?”

“Splinter was cryin’, sayin’ ya ‘ad left and that you ain’t comin’ back.” Jack paused, clearly debating whether or not to tell Race the rest. Taking a deep breath, he spoke. “And then Crutchie tried ta comfort ‘im and he wouldn’t accept it. Said that he already knew what ya were gonna do ‘cause ‘is dad did the same.”

Race’s breath caught in his throat.

“His dad went out more ‘nd more. Then he started comin’ back drunk. Splinter ain’t say drunk but he said actin’ funny and ain’t that how littles always see it. Then one day ‘is dad didn’t come back so he was alone. That’s when Skittery found ‘im.”

Tears were streaming down Race’s cheeks as he held his hands over his mouth. Splinter was one of the littlest littles there was in Manhattan. The tiny, timid kid had wormed his way into Race’s heart and, with his tendency to get a splinter from every wooden thing he touched, Race had spent many an hour hugging and distracting him as Crutchie tried to get the splinter out of his finger. The thought of being the reason that Splinter cried and the thought that he was anything like the monster who had abandoned Splinter was too much for Race to bare. He looked down, tears of loathing shaking him to his core. A pair of arms wrapped around him but he pushed away.

“Race, would ya please look at me.” Race didn’t look up. Jack knelt down, blocking out his blurry view of the ground. “I didn’t tell ya that ta make ya cry. Ya didn’t know so it ain’t ya fault. But please remember that ya got a family waitin’ fa ya.”

“I don’t gotta go ta Brooklyn.” Race mumbled, barely audible to Jack.

“Yes ya do.” He placed a hand on each of Race’s shoulders. “Ya gotta go ta Brooklyn and sell in the sellin’ spot ya always dreamed of havin’ and then ya gotta pay ya nickel and spend the evenin’ beatin’ them all at poker but at the end, ya gotta remember ta come home. Ya can get the best of both ‘Hattan and Brooklyn, yous lucky like that.”

Race stared at Jack for a moment then jumped forwards and hugged him tightly.

“Thanks Jack.”

When Race had snuck up behind Splinter the next morning and surprised him by lifting him up into a hug, Jack was polite enough not to mention why.

————

The Brooklyn newsies accepted Race’s explanation that he could no longer stay so often because he had to help keep the littles safe as it grew colder; Brooklyn might have a reputation for being strong but even they found winters tough. And so they made no objection of Race’s new schedule.

Had anyone had asked Race what his favourite part of his new schedule was, he wouldn’t have lied. He would have quite truthfully said that it was the time he spent teaching the littles of Manhattan maths, a lesson that the littles had asked for after an apparently very embarrassing incident in a shop. The lesson was right after dinner on a Wednesday, in the time that he used to spend in Brooklyn, and were only ever a quarter of an hour at most. After that, the giggles, which were sprinkled throughout the lesson, took over and the lesson was abandoned in favour of a game of tag or some other shenanigan.

Although these lessons were his favourite part of his new schedule, there was a very close second place. Gambling with the Brooklyn newsies. Although the games were a firm fixture in both Race’s old and new schedules, the creation of the new schedule coincided with Spot’s decision to begin watching the games. He would sit perched up on a stack of crates or on the windowsill above the table and watch, his mouth twitching up occasionally at an over dramatic reaction. He never played. But he would watch and talk and it was the second best part of Race’s week.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry this is a shorter chapter but more will be up very shortly, thank you for reading and I hope you enjoyed!
> 
> I was also completely attached to Splinter due to this chapter alone so you will get to see my baby once or twice more.


	3. Winter 1897

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Brooklyn Bridge is hardly the place to be during a storm.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The last chapter was quite short so I thought I would post two in one go, I hope you enjoy!

Race would have refused to leave the Brooklyn lodging house had he know how quickly the rain was going to switch from light rain to a full on storm. He had barely paused at the lodging house at all, he had promised to help make sure that all the newsies had the winter clothing they needed, so he simply paid and started towards the bridge. He was nearly at the bridge when the heavens opened, drenching him instantly as he ran to the edge of the street, ducking into the doorway of a nearby shop.

Staring at the rain in shock, he slumped against the wall and waited. His wet clothes dripped onto the doorstep as he silently begged the rain to let up. If he waited too long, he was at risk of freezing before he made it back to Manhattan but he didn’t want to go early if it was going to stop as quickly as it started. Eventually he concluded that the rain was not going to let up anytime soon so he gritted his teeth and ran into the street. He sprinted down the streets, not bothering to dodge the forming puddles, and onto the bridge.

The rain alone might have been bad but the gusting wind was worst. The first major gust hit when he was halfway to the first tower, knocking him to the side as he pushed against it. Not daring to try turning back, he pushed on to the tower, collapsing to the ground with relief when he could press his back into the cold stone.

Letting his head slump backwards, he got as comfortable as he could and settled down for what was going to be a very long night. The one mercy was that nobody would be stupid enough to try and cross the bridge tonight so he was safe from both thieves and bulls.

“Race!” A voice screamed out. Turning to look for the source, Race paled. Standing at the end of the bridge was Arthur. Brooklyn had come looking for him.

“Stay!” He yelled back, his voice fighting against the wind. “You’ll be blown off.”

“Ya can’t stay there.”

“I can’t risk coming back.”

Arthur didn’t respond, instead he held up both hands as if to say ‘stay’ and ran off.

It was a while before he came back, during which Race had successful counted up his earnings and divided them into his pockets depending on whether he was planning to spend them or save them. It was a surprisingly easy task when he wasn’t swatting away grabbing hands every few seconds. When Arthur finally returned, he wasn’t alone. The wall of a boy who had soaked him, who was aptly known as Tower, and another equally huge boy, known as Bernard, were with him. Fortunately Race’s first impression of Tower was misleading so instead of being scared at the site of the two boys, Race was worried.

“Ya betta’ not be plannin’ what I think ya plannin’.” He yelled over, getting three laughs in response as Tower and Bernard threw an arm over each other’s shoulders and made a break for it, tearing across the bridge and throwing themselves into the protection of the tower.

“It’s rainin’ a bit out there.” Tower deadpanned not flinching when Race punched him in the arm.

“Come on, I ain’t staying out ‘ere any longer than needed.” Bernard grimaced as he looked out at the storm.

Tower and Bernard both threw their arms over Race’s shoulder as Race, suddenly feeling rather tiny, saved himself the embarrassment of trying to reach their shoulders and wrapped one of his arms around each of their waists.

“Count of three?” Tower asked, and when the two nodded in response, began. “One. Two. Three!”

The trio darted forwards, the wind hitting them instantly as they sprinted towards the safety of Brooklyn. As they ran, Race cursed his own stupidity for getting them into such a situation whilst also remaining eternally grateful that he had the sense not to attempt to get back alone. With the two towering figures above him, Race barely shifted as the gusts of wind peaked with enough power to fling him from the bridge. As the trio barrelled off the bridge, Race registered Tower reaching out and grabbing Arthur’s arm, pulling him with them as they sprinted along the deserted streets, only stopping when the lodging house door slammed closed behind them and they collapsed onto the floor.

The sound of metal dropping onto wood came from above them.

“Mrs Kirby, ‘Hattan will be spendin’ the night.”

Race looked up at the mention of his nickname to see Spot talking to a small, kind looking lady.

“Of course he will, there isn’t a single doubt about that. Just you make sure he gets warm and dry before he gets ill. Now if you are all finished getting stuck on bridges, I really must go to bed or I shall not be able to get up tomorrow.” Poking her head into the main dorm, she called out. “Goodnight boys, sleep well.”

A mixture of “Goodnight, Mrs Kirby.” and “Night, Mrs Kirby.” were called out as she turned and headed for a door behind the counter. As she passed Spot, she patted him on the shoulder in a semi-awkward way, as if she normally said goodnight with a different gesture but thought better of it.

“Goodnight, Spot.”

“Goodnight, Mrs Kirby.” There was definitely a trace of a smile on Spot’s lips.

“Arthur, Tower, and Bernard, you three get dry and off to bed, goodnight.”

“Night, Mrs Kirby.” “Goodnight, Mrs Kirby.” “Goodnight, Mrs Kirby.” All three of them waved from their position on the floor.

“And it was very nice to meet you properly, Manhattan. Make sure you get dry and don’t let them make you share a bed with Joe, he kicks in his sleep. Goodnight.”

“Thank you fa lettin’ me stay and goodnight, Mrs Kirby.” Race uncertainty, only still on the floor because he was being crushed by the two taller boys.

“No problem at all, dear.”

And with that she was gone, leaving a shocked Race in her wake. Despite her small stature, Mrs Kirby seemed to have the respect of every one of the Brooklyn newsies. He was certain that she wasn’t like Spot—small but deceptively strong—because Spot acted dangerous. Mrs Kirby just seemed loving and Race could only assume that was why the Brooklyn newsies respected her. She was kind and respectful to them.

“She said it’s nice ta meet me properly, ain’t ya gotta at least see someone ya say that ta them.” Race ask, still processing the events of the last few minutes.

“She saw ya when ya spent the night.” Spot answered. “She’s the matron of this lodging house so she checks we’re up and collects our fees when we go ta bed.”

“We ain’t got a matron but she seems real nice.” With Tower and Bernard having finally moved, Race pushed himself off the floor.

“She is.” Arthur piped up.

“She also like ‘er floor dry so yous gotta get dry and off ta bed. Race, the box of extra clothes is in my room. ‘M sure there will be somethin’ there in ya size.”

The group splintered off as they headed through the main room, each heading off to their own bunk as Race followed Spot into his room. Once there, Spot pulled a box out from under his bed, and tossed a shirt, a pair of trousers, and a pair of socks onto his bed. Looking back at Race, he spoke.

“Ya gonna ‘ave ta sleep ‘ere tonight; all the other beds already ‘ave either two newsies or three littles sleepin’ in ‘em. ‘M gonna go check theys all in bed, ya can get changed into that while ‘m gone. Leave ya clothes on the chair ta dry.”

With that, Spot was gone, leaving Race to get changed out of his drenched clothes. The clothes Spot had left him were definitely not his usual attire. Mostly because the only red thing worn in Manhattan was Jack’s necktie and the shirt was the bold red colour that so many of the Brooklyn newsies favoured. Looking down at himself as he hung his clothes over the chair, he couldn’t deny that the colour did make him feel dangerous. He laughed quietly to himself and took a seat on the floor with his back against Spot’s bed; It didn’t feel right sit on Spot’s bed without asking and his chair was covered in wet clothes.

————

When Spot finally got back to his room after breaking up a magnitude of squabbles and helping at least three littles find various items, he certainly didn’t expect the site before him. Fast asleep on the floor lay Race, his legs stretched out as if he had previously being sitting against the side of the bed. Shifting in his sleep, he curled up into a ball, still shivering despite him wearing the clothes Spot had left out for him. Silently stepping around him, Spot tugged his blanket off his bed and carefully tucked it over the sleeping boy.

Stepping away, he quickly shucked off his shirt and untied the material around his chest. Throwing the shirt back on, he tucked the fabric into his pocket and tiptoed over to lie down on his bed. He shivered in the cold, unwillingly to disturb the newsies sleeping in the main room by getting one of the spare blankets, so he stayed put and curled up into a ball until he finally fell asleep.

————

Race didn’t wake to an empty room. Spot sat on the bed, already dressed and sorting through a pile of coins. He looked over as Race shifted.

“Mornin’ Race.”

“Mornin’ Spot.” His fingers brushed against the blanket he had draped over his shoulders. “Ain’t ya cold without ya blanket?”

“Race,” Spot deadpanned. “Ya were only cold ‘cause ya spent the evenin’ one the Brooklyn Bridge.”

Race laughed, rising off the floor and reaching over to press the fabric of his shirt between his fingers. It was still dripping wet.

“Ya could sell as ya are today, get ya clothes when ya come back this evenin’.” Race nodded in agreement as the two headed out to get breakfast.

————

From what Race could tell, Mrs Kirby checked on the boys only a few times a day. The first time was just before breakfast was about to start, the second time was after breakfast as the boys headed off to distribution gates, and the final time was just before bed. It was just after breakfast when she caught him.

“Good morning, Manhattan. Did you sleep well?”

“Yes thank ya, Mrs Kirby.” Race tried to be polite as possible as he struggled to know how to react to such a mothering figure.

“Well that is good to hear. I am glad they found you some dry clothes to wear, even though they are not your normal colours. Have a good selling day.” She smiled, waving as she left to the sound of Race’s response.

“Thank ya, Mrs Kirby.”

————

Race promised himself that he would talk to each of the group alone and he caught Bernard in the morning as they paid for their papers.

“Hey, Bernard,” Bernard looked down at him as he munched his way through an apple. “Thanks fa stoppin’ me from havin’ ta spend the night on the bridge.”

“That was ya plan?” He asked incredulously. “Just stay there ‘til the wind stopped.”

“Didn’t really ‘ave a choice, did I? I didn’t realise ‘ow strong the wind was ‘til I was ‘alfway across and I couldn’t risk tryin’ ta turn back.”

“I thought ya were plannin’ ta ‘ead fa ‘Hattan anyway. ‘M glad ta know ya got some brains in there.”

Race laughed as the two split and headed for their own selling spots. To say that Race’s regulars were confused to see the Manhattan kid wearing red was an understatement but Race didn’t mind retelling the story. He got quite a few good tips from it.

It was late morning when Race sold his last paper and jumped on the train back toward the Brooklyn lodging house in search of Arthur. He would never have caught the train back during the day when he first started selling in Brooklyn but now, after months of practice, he was able to travel freely, safe in the knowledge that he knew all the tricks to avoid wasting his precious earnings. Arthur sold his last paper as Race approached.

“Arthur,” Race called out as he jogged up.

“Hey Race, you done sellin’ fa the morning?”

“I just finished.” Race explained. “I came by ta say thank ya.”

“I couldn’t let ya stay there, I’d miss beatin’ ya at Poker.”

Race broke down laughing, Arthur joining in as the two of them began ta make their way towards the distribution gates.

“I didn’t find ya by chance.” Race looked at Arthur in confusion. “I was at the lodging house when the storm started.”

“Then why did ya leave?”

“‘Cause Spot pointed out ya wouldn’t have had time ta get ta ‘Hattan before the storm hit and he sent us out ta find ya.”

Race scrambled around for a response that he didn’t have. Spot was known across the boroughs for always putting his boys first so it didn’t make sense for him to risk his boys for Race.

“Why would he send yous out lookin’ fa me? Ya coulda got sick.”

An arm dropped over Race’s shoulder as a laugh echoed above him.

“Simple,” Tower said as he stopped laughing. “Spot looks after Brooklyn and yous Brooklyn too.”

Race stared mutely up at Tower then over at Arthur who nodded. There was a pause, then Race smiled.

The trio continued towards the distribution gates and they left the conversation behind in favour of discussing Tower’s plans for the future; he had just a few weeks left as a newsie before he aged out. He had managed to get a job in a factory so he would be selling his last papers in a few days and then he would start the job, staying in the lodging house until he got his first pay check, just a few days before his birthday. With his pay check, he would be able to get somewhere else to stay more permanently and he would be off.

Rack forgot about the original conversation until he was back in his Manhattan bunk. It was there that he realised that he wanted to be Brooklyn as well as Manhattan and that getting soaked and creating his new schedule were the best two things that had ever happened to him.

————

When Race dropped by to pay his nickel and collect his clothes, he didn’t stay long; he was well aware that the Manhattan newsies would be worried about him not coming home. When he explained, he was told not to bother changing and to return the clothes later so he headed straight for the bridge with his clothes bundled in the bag he used to carry his papers.

“Hey Brooklyn, what business ya got in ‘Hattan?” A voice yelled at him as he walked through Manhattan, barely a street away from the Brooklyn Bridge.

“Ya betta’ ‘ave a good reason fa being’ ‘ere.” A second voice growled as the two newsies approached.

“Comin’ ‘ome a good enough reason fa ya?” Race smirked as he turned to face Mush and Blink.

“Race?” Mush yelled as Blink looked him up and down in shock. “Why ya dressed all Brooklyn?”

“I got caught on the bridge durin’ the storm yesterday.”

The two gasped.

“I was in newsie square when I started ‘nd it was windy there so ‘ow ya survive the bridge?” Blink asked.

“I’ll tell ya back at the lodging house, ain’t no point in tellin’ it twice.”

Mush and Blink didn’t protest, each of them throwing an arm over Race’s shoulders as they headed back towards the lodging house.

The streets of Manhattan were dotted with newsies who had just sold their final papers, all of them freezing at the sight of a Brooklyn newsie walking so casually with two Manhattan newsies. Race spotted quite a few of them darting into alleyways as they snapped out of their daze and, judging by how full the Manhattan lodging house was when they arrived, they had all run straight there as soon as they were out of sight.

The moment Race entered the main room, silence fell over the crowd. Race deliberately kept his head down as all eyes fell on him. A pair of familiar boots appeared in front of him.

“There a reason why yous lookin’ so nervous, Brooklyn?” Jack’s voice was carefully modulated.

“I ain’t nervous, Kelly.” Race dropped his voice as he spoke before raising it back to normal to continue speaking. “‘M just bein’ dramatic.”

As Race looked up with a grin, Jack laughed and tugged him into a hug. Stepping back, he took a moment to look Race up and down.

“Ya betta’ not be ‘ere ta tell me Brooklyn ‘as stolen ya away.”

“Not this time,” Race laughed. “I got caught on the bridge durin’ the storm.”

“What?” A chorus of voices shouted as Splinter leapt up from his place beside Henry and wrapped Race in a hug. As Race bent down to hug Splinter back, Mush spoke.

“Ya promise ya would tell us the story.”

“Sure, I’ll tell.”

Opting to lift Splinter up rather than extract himself from his tight grip, Race settled down on his bunk with Splinter on his lap and, flanked by Mush and Blink, began to retell the events of the night, strategically ending the story before he mentioned falling asleep in Spot’s room or Spot giving him his blanket. He began the story with a far overdramatised retelling of the events however one look at Jack’s face, noticeably pale as he lent against the wall, made him return to a more realistic version of events. Jack’s face did not regain its colour.

————

Race did not keep the shirt through lack of trying to return it. He didn’t return any of clothes the next day as he was washing and drying them but he successfully returned the trousers and socks the day after. The shirt, which did not fit into his paper bag at the same time as his papers as well as the trousers and socks, was repeatedly forgotten about as Race either forgot to put it in his bag or remembered but forgot to return when he reached the Brooklyn lodging house. Spot confronted him about it after a week.

Just after dinner, Race lay flat out on Spot’s bed having barely escaped being tackled by a group of littles just moments earlier. As Spot wrote out plans for how to best use the rest of the money Brooklyn had saved up during the summer months, the two boys were chatting amiably when Spot spoke.

“Ya know that shirt we lent ya?”

“I have-” Race trailed off as he found his bag to be empty. “-it. Sorry Spot, I swear I ain’t doin’ this on purpose.”

“Ya a mess, I know.” Spot laughed as Race scowled. “I was ‘bout to say, why don’t ya keep it?”

“Don’t one of ya boys need it?”

“Ya saw the box, we ‘ave plenty of shirts. Ya can use it if yous ever need ya get through areas who ain’t fond of ‘Hattan without gettin’ soaked.”

Race considered for a moment, the conflict with Queens coming to mind. Both Manhattan and Brooklyn were in a semipermanent state of conflict with Queens but if he was spotted by a Queens newsie, who knew him to be Manhattan, whilst he was wearing a Brooklyn shirt, he would almost definitely be safe. No newsie would risk harming a newsies who had two boroughs behind him as Queens would not win a full out war with both Manhattan and Brooklyn.

“Thank ya, Spottie,” Spot simply shook his head at the nickname and the two continued chatting until Race had to head home.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Race wearing Brooklyn colours is everything to me, I hope you all enjoyed!


	4. Spring 1898

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> As tensions rise between Brooklyn and Queens, Spot is forced to make a dangerous choice.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TW: Violence, pressurised outing, internalised transphobia

As the temperature rose, so did tensions between Queens and Brooklyn. As Queens started sending groups of newsies to sell further and further into Brooklyn territory, Brooklyn retaliated by positioning their strongest newsies along the border to stop them and it worked. The two sides still lashed out when they came face to face but neither managed to shift the border in their favour. One such face to face encounter occurred when a group of Queens newsies managed to slip past the Brooklyn line and found themselves on the same street as Ollie, the newest and smallest of the Brooklyn newsies, and Spot, Ollie’s selling partner for the day. The group spotted Ollie alone as Spot sold just up the street, hidden by the crowds.

“Ain’t ya awful small ta be sellin’ by ya self.” The largest of the five newsies cooed as the group surrounded Ollie, pushing forwards to back him into the wall.

“I ain’t alone,” Ollie stammered out, another of the group blocking his attempt to leave.

“Really? ‘Cause ya look pretty alone ta me.”

“Lemme just take those.” The second largest newsie snatched Ollie’s papers from his bag. “Ya won’t be needed ‘em after all.”

“Give ‘em back!” Ollie yelled, catching the attention of a few passerby who hurried away at the sight of the large Queens newsies.

“Why? Ya don’t need ‘em. This ain’t ya sellin’ spot anymore.” The first newsie grasped Ollie on the shoulder. “So why don’t ya gimme those coins of yours and get outta ‘ere.”

————

As the customer vanished into the crowd with their paper, Spot went to call out the headline only to be cut off by a yell echoing through the streets

“Give ‘em back!”

Spot knew that voice. As he pushed through the crowd towards where he had left Ollie, another voice spoke. A far lower and completely unfamiliar voice that definitely did not belong to a Brooklyn newsie. Breaking through the crowd, Spot surveyed the scene. There were five unfamiliar newsies, each wearing a green necktie which Spot distinctly remembered Jack complaining about. Whether they were copying Jack or not, the green necktie was well known to be the uniform of the Queens newsies and Spot didn’t want Queens newsies in Brooklyn at all, let alone cornering a Brooklyn little.

“I ain’t givin’ ya my coins, theys mine ‘cause I earned them.”

“I don’t think ya know ‘ow things work around ‘ere kid,” The newsie cooed, his mouth twisting into a cruel smile as he visibly tightening his grip on Ollie’s shoulder. Spot snapped when Ollie squealed in pain.

“No, I think yous are the ones who don’t know ‘ow things work ‘ere,” Spot growled, tossing his bag of papers onto the dry pavement.

The group span around and moved, each and every one of them towering over Spot as they circled him. The largest newsie laughed.

“And who do ya think ya are, tiny? Some sorta boss ‘round ‘ere?”

Spot smirked, unhooking his cane from his waistband as the smallest of the newsies looked down at Spot and paled.

“Hawk, that’s Spot Conlon.”

Hawk turned a shade lighter but didn’t shift.

“That bother ya, Jackal?”

“I ain’t scared of ‘im if that’s what ya askin’.” Hawk stared at Jackal for a moment then his attention snapped back to Spot.

“Yous gonna ‘and over all ya coins then ya gonna get outta ‘ere.”

Spot burst out laughing before snapping his mouth shut and growling out his response.

“No, yous gonna get outta ‘ere before I soak ya.”

“If ya ain’t gonna ‘and ya money over, we’ll just take it from ya.”

Hawk drew his right hand out of his pocket, the brass knuckles glinting in the light. The group froze as Spot adjusted his grip on his cane. Hawk stared him down as Spot stared back. Then, without warning, Hawk shot forward, Spot dodging the fist flying towards his cheek as the rest of the five joined the fray.

A fist smashed into Spot’s shoulder as he lashed out with his cane, sending a newsie staggering backwards as a second tried to grab Spot’s shirt. Jumping to the side, Spot swung again, his cane cracking into a newsies nose. The newsie stumbled backwards as a fist flew towards Spot’s stomach, only tapping Spot before its owner withdrew and ran to his friend’s side. A fist came out of nowhere and, with a flash of sunlight, buried itself into Spot’s chest.

Spot yelled as pain shot through his chest, radiating out in a torturous wave.

His vision blurred.

Time seemed to slow until a second became an eternity.

The fist stayed frozen in his chest, the metal unrelenting as it pressed against his ribs.

And then time sped up again and Spot leapt back. Spinning on his heel, he swung twice in quick succession, colliding with the side of a head and then a jaw. Spinning to find his final target, Spot’s blood went cold.

Hawk had stepped back and grabbed Ollie, cruelly twisting his arm as he dragged him forwards.

“Gimme ya coins or ya little is gonna wish ya did.”

Slowly clipping his cane to his waistband, Spot reached into his pocket and pretended to pull out the coins. Hawk dragged Ollie forwards as he held out his hand for the coins. Reaching forwards, Spot went as if to drop the coins into his waiting hand but shifted at the last moment, grabbing Hawk by his wrist and smashing his foot into his knee, a sickening crunch echoing below his foot as Hawk screamed. Dropping Ollie, he fell to the ground, shuffling quickly backwards as to put as much distance between himself and Spot as possible.

Spot stepped up to Ollie, gently drawing the shaking little into his side as he surveyed the nearly empty street, ignoring Hawk’s shuddering form. With one newsie clutching his jaw, another swaying slightly as he clutched his head, and a third newsies was nursing a clearly broken nose as Jackal supported him, it was obvious that Jackal was the owner of the first that barely tapped Spot before retreating.

“Get outta ‘ere,” Spot growled then gestured at Hawk. “And take that mess with ya.”

Jackal, the only uninjured member of the group, rushed to Hawk’s side and helped him stand as the group began to stagger towards Queens. Spot didn’t take his eyes off them.

“Spot!” A voice called out and he turned to see a group of Brooklyn newsies running towards them, Stitch amongst them.

“A shoeshine boy told us some Queens newsies were fightin’ ‘ere.” Stitch paused, looking past Spot at the staggering group. “Don’t look like we’s needed.”

“Actually ya are needed.” Spot scanned the group before settling on Nickel and Dime, the best two runners he had. “Nickel, Dime, Yous two run ‘head of ‘em and tell everyone ta let ‘em through. Theys gotta actually reach Queens if my message is ta get ‘cross. If theys start causin’ trouble, ‘it the biggest one in the knee.”

“The knee?” Nickel asked.

“It’s broken.” The twins nodded in understanding as Spot continued. “The rest of ya, divide Ollie ‘nd Stitch’s papes up between ya and sell for ‘em.”

“What ‘bout your papes, Spot?” Stitch asked, glancing between the little clinging to Spot’s side and Spot’s slightly hunched shoulders.

Spot bent down to lift Ollie into his arms, ignoring the stab of pain as he focused on the shaking little. 

“My papes are over there, sell ‘em once ya ‘ave sold the other papes ‘nd not before.”

With that, the group split with Nickel and Dime following the Queens newsies, Spot, Stitch, and Ollie heading for the lodging house, and the rest of the group scattering to their selling spots, each with a slightly larger bundle of papers in their paper bags.

————

Ollie clung to Spot the whole way, trembling and burrowing further into his arms as they wove through the crowded streets, then completely refused to let Spot go once they reached the lodging house. After Stitch managed to confirm that Ollie was physically fine, Ollie was finally convinced to sleep on the condition that Spot remained with him the entire time which Spot easily agreed to. As he sat with his back against the headboard of Ollie’s bunk and Ollie curled up on his chest, Spot spoke.

“Ya ‘ave somethin’ ta say.” Spot wasn’t asking a question.

“Ya ain’t standin’ right and ya wince every time Ollie moves. I need ta check ya ribs.”

“I just promised Ollie I would stay, I ain’t gonna break that promise.”

In truth, Spot had two reasons for postponing Stitch’s examination of his ribs. The first reason was that Spot was well aware of how upset Ollie would be if he woke up alone after the traumatic events of the afternoon. The second reason was the Spot knew Stitch would need him to remove his shirt so he could examine his rib and removing his shirt would reveal the fabric tied around his chest. Stitch would make him remove it and then he would know that he was born a girl and Spot had no idea how he would react to that information. Spot ran the endless scenarios through his head as he held Ollie close and prayed to anybody listening that Stitch would keep his secret.

————

The Ollie that woke up when the first gaggle of littles arrive back from selling was a far less distraught Ollie than the one that went to sleep. Spot groaned as the ball of energy tumbled off his chest and darted across the room to his friends, instantly being pulled into a game of tag.

“Come on, Spot, I gotta check ya ribs.”

Spot sighed at Stitch’s words before swinging his legs off the bed with a grimace.

“Hey Spottie,” Race skidded around the edge of the bunk, plopping down next to Spot on the bunk. Spot tried, and failed, to hide his wince from Race. “‘M guessin’ it was yous those Queens newies were fightin’.”

“Ain’t hardly a fight. It was a soakin’.”

“Which side got soaked?” Spot scowled at Race’s teasing.

“I broke on of their knees, ya want me ta demonstrate?” Race raised his eyebrows then fished around in his pocket and handed Spot a nickel.

“Ya really don’t do gentle do ya, Spottie.”

“It ain’t like I ‘ad no reason, the brute was threatenin’ Ollie.”

Race’s expression softened as he spoke.

“I’ll let ya get ya ribs check then. ‘M headin’ back ta ‘Hattan so I’ll see ya tomorrow.”

“See ya, Race,”

Race left with a wave as Spot finally stood and followed Stitch into his bedroom.

————

“Ya get ya shirt off so I can check ya ribs ain’t broken,” Stitch began as the door swung shut behind them.

“Would ya sit? I gotta explain somethin’.”

Stitch watched Spot with a curious expression as he took a seat on the edge of the bed.

“‘M listenin’.”

“Look, I ain’t sayin’ this ‘cause I don’t trust ya. I wouldn’t be tellin’ ya this at all if I didn’t trust ya.” Stitch nodded slowly as Spot dragged his hand down his face, desperately searching for the right words. “‘M a boy but I was born a girl.”

“I ain’t sure I understand.” Stitch kept his voice level as he spoke.

“Yous a boy, ain’t ya?”

“Yes.”

“If ya suddenly became a girl, ya would feel odd, wouldn’t ya?”

“I guess.”

“Well just like ya would feel odd as a girl, I feel odd as a girl.”

“So ya were a girl when ya were born but ya knew it was wrong so ya dressed as a boy?”

“Yes.”

Stitch sat motionless for a moment then he spoke up.

“I ain’t gonna tell anyone. I don’t fully understand but yous still Spot ain’t ya?”

“Yes.” Spot hesitated, unwilling to push his luck but needing reassurance. “Ya really ain’t gonna say anythin’?”

“I swear I ain’t gonna say a word, I know what it’s like ta ‘ave a secret that nobody can know.”

“Ya mean yous and Fancy?”

“What?” Stitch whisper yelled, gripping the edge of the bed.

“I’ve ‘ad my suspicions fa a while but I don’t think the others ‘ave noticed.”

“How did ya know?”

“Up ta last year, yous were always with each other then suddenly it was like yous were tryin’ ta figure out ‘ow ta act ‘round each other.”

“Oh.” Stitch looked down, fidgeting as he spoke. “Ya sure no one else knows?”

“I ain’t seen anyone lookin’ at ya weird and I ain’t ‘eard anyone talkin’ ‘bout it.”

Stitch sighed in relief as he relaxed his grip on the bed.

“I still need ta check ya ribs, Spot.”

Taking a deep breath, Spot pulled off his shirt, trying not to wince at the jarring movement, and positioned himself next to Stitch on the bed, who began to feel his way along his ribs.

“‘M sorry, Spot. I ain’t able ta tell if theys broken with the fabric there.”

As Spot went to untie the fabric, the pressure on his chest sent waves of pain rippling through him and he doubled over, gasping for breath.

“Hey Spot, breath slowly.” As the pain subsided and Spot managed to uncurl, Stitch spoke carefully. “Ya want me ta untie it fa ya?”

“Yes,” Spot stuttered out through the last twangs of pain.

Stitch shifted and began to tug the knots of fabric free, wincing sympathetically when he removed the fabric to reveal Spot’s heavily bruised chest. Spot gritted his teeth as Stitch gently pressed his fingers to the bruise and paled suddenly, the distinctive feel of a break under his fingertips.

“That ain’t just bruised.”

Spot cursed.

“Ya know it ain’t gonna heal if ya wear that fabric, don’t ya?”

“Why?” Spot hunched self consciously.

“Ya remember when Ed broke ‘is rib?” Spot nodded. “I guess ya weren’t told ‘cause ya weren’t king yet but when we wrapped ‘is ribs, the bandages started ta make ‘em worse. That fabric ya got ain’t that different from bandages.”

“Look at me, Stitch. It ain’t like I can just not wear the fabric, everyone would know I ain’t born a boy.”

“What if ya ribs never heal?”

“Ain’t no point in havin’ ‘ealed ribs if someone decides ta toss me in the East River.”

“And there ain’t no point in livin’ if ya can’t move without bein’ in agony.”

The two stared at each other, the impossible choice looming over them.

“‘M cornered ain’t I.” Spot mumbled.

“Ya can’t wear the fabric but if ya ain’t wearin’ the fabric, ya can’t be a newsie.” Stitched mused. “What if ya move boroughs ‘til ya heal?”

“There ain’t a borough in New York who don’t know me but ya could be on ta somethin’.”

Spot dropped off his bed and began to rummage around in the box of extra clothes. When he finally emerged, he held up a dress for Stitch to inspect. With a high neck and long sleeves, there was no doubt that it would cover his wounds but it was a dress so Spot was definitely not looking forwards to wearing it.

“How come ya ‘ave that? The girls get clothes from the Orphan Asylum.”

“This ain’t from the girls. I ‘ad two dresses when I lived at the Hebrew Orphan Asylum of New York ‘nd I kept one incase I ‘ad ta be a girl again.” Spot sighed as he rubbed his thumb over the thick fabric.

“That ain’t gonna fit ya, yous been a newsies since ya were ten.”

“I ain’t grown much.” Spot mumbled as he held the dress up against him. “The sleeves ain’t tight so my arms ain’t gonna be an issue.”

“Ya really ain’t grown since ya arrived?” Stitch laughed lightly at Spot’s scowl before returning to his serious tone of voice. “So ya gonna go back?”

“I can’t, they don’t let ya back if ya leave but even if they did, that place is harder ta escape then The Refuge.” Stitch paled at his words.

“Ya can’t be plannin’ what I think ya plannin’.”

“Ya got a betta’ plan?” Stitch stuttered, searching for words. “Exactly. I’ll get caught grabbin’ somethin’ and I’ll give Snyder lotsa reasons ta keep me longer.”

“Kids die in The Refuge!” Stitch yelled quietly.

“I don’t ‘ave a choice.” Spot mumbled.

Stitch sat silently, then took a deep breath.

“‘Ow can I ‘elp?”

————

The plan went off without a hitch. The duo awoke in the early hours of the morning and, with Stitch acting as a lookout, Spot snuck out through the main room with the dress bundled under his arm. Sneaking through the empty streets, the two found a dark alleyway and, with Stitch once again acting as a lookout, Spot quickly changed into the dress. Stitch quickly bundled Spot’s old clothes in his bag and, with a hug and a promise to deliver food when he could, Stitch ran back to the lodging house, leaving Spot alone to get arrested. It didn’t take long. By the time the distribution bell rung, Spot was in the back of a cart on his way to The Refuge after having pickpocketed a policeman. 

When Spot didn’t return the following night, the Brooklyn newsies began to grow concerned and Stitch volunteered to check The Refuge. After filling Spot in on the events of the day and delivering a small bundle of food, Stitch returned to the lodging house and delivered a note from Spot. He delivered the note without reading it so he was more surprised than the rest of the lodging house when it declared that he was King until Spot’s return and that he was to ‘not destroy my room whilst I’m gone’.

Stitch visited Spot once more and, by doing so, made the next stage of their plan begin. The first step of the visit was to hand over another bundle of food to Spot and to update him on the events he had missed. He then visited the boys dorm and traded a bundle of food in return for them pretending the ‘small, blond kid’ had been taken to the basement for fighting. The third and final stage of the plan was to inform the rest of the Brooklyn newsies that Spot had been thrown into the basement.

————

The six weeks Spot spent in The Refuge crawled past for everyone.

————

For Stitch, the time he spent struggling under the pressure of ruling Brooklyn was an eternity. As news of Spot’s arrest rocketed through the boroughs, Queens took the opportunity to lash out against Brooklyn who struck back with equal force, leading to constant clashes along the border and on one horrific occasion, a little getting soaked.

Stitch tied off the bandage, checking that it held firm before he stepped back. The little, a bright eyed kid called Silver, tugged at the bandages around his broken arm before mumbling a quiet thank you.

“Don’t ya go tumbling ‘round fa a few weeks, ok? Ya gotta let it ‘eal.”

Silver nodded mutely, hugging Stitch quickly before shuffling off to find his friends. Stitch sighed and retreated to the bedroom that was temporarily his, slumping down onto the bed and clutching his head in his hands. Blinking back the rising tears, he sat motionless in the silent room, thinking about all the ways he had failed Spot. He knew Spot was expecting to come back to a thriving Brooklyn, or at least a Brooklyn that had all of its newsies in one piece, but Stitch hadn’t even been able to protect all of the littles, let alone the older kids who regularly came back with split knuckles and bruised jaws.

When Mrs Kirby visited during her bedtime rounds, Stitch was still lost in thought. Gently closing the door, she sat down next to him.

“I suppose you blame yourself for Silver.” Stitch jumped at her voice then nodded slowly. “My dear, you had no control over what happened. You can not be everywhere in Brooklyn at once.”

“I ain’t fierce enough ta stop Queens from attackin’.” Stitch mumbled.

“Correct me if I am mistaken but I was under the impression that Queens was attacking because Spot is gone.” Stitch nodded prompting Mrs Kirby to laugh gently and pull him into a hug. “My dear, there is not a single newsboy or newsgirl in the whole of New York City who could replace Spot because Spot has built himself into a legend. You could be the best leader that Brooklyn has ever had and Queens would still be attacking because they see only see the fact that the famous Spot Conlon is not there to defend Brooklyn. In fact-” Mrs Kirby squeezed Stitches shoulder with a smile. “-I heard a group at breakfast talking about what a good job you were doing.”

Stitch’s mouth twisted into a cautious smile as he spoke.

“For real?”

“For real.” Stitch beamed, Mrs Kirby smiling back at the sight. “Now, I managed to convince the main room to settle down so you do not need to worry about that. Goodnight, my dear.”

“Goodnight, Mrs Kirby. Thank ya.”

Tousling his hair as she stood, Mrs Kirby smiled reassuringly and left, gently closing the door behind her.

Just a few moments later, Fancy entered. The two had quickly returned to their usual sleeping arrangements when, after Stitch complained about the bed being too cold one too many times, Bernard had snapped and insisted that, whilst Spot would almost definitely not mind another person in his bed whilst he was gone, he would definitely mind having to organise a funeral. Fancy had joined Stitch the next night.

“Ya were conversin’ with Mrs Kirby fa a while. Are ya ok?” Fancy examined Stitch for any indication of what could have been the issue until Stitch shook his head and spoke.

“‘M ok now. We was talkin’ ‘bout Silver and ‘bout me bein’ king.”

Fancy plopped down next to Stitch, wrapping him in a hug and pressing a chaste kiss to his cheek.

“Ya know what ‘appened ta Silver ain’t ya fault, right?”

“I know.” Stitch pressed a kiss to Fancy’s forehead and resting his cheek on Fancy’s head. “I didn’t know before but Mrs Kirby made me realise it.”

“Good,” Fancy smiled, unwinding himself from Stitch and preparing for bed. “Ya betta’ get ready fa sleep too, I want ta make the most of these nights.”

“I ain’t gonna miss bein’ king,” Stitch commented as he began to prepare for bed. “But ‘m gonna miss havin’ our own room.”

“Ya think that’s why Spot said ya could use his room?”

“What ya mean?”

“Hey didn’t ‘ave ta say ya could use it, he coulda say ta leave it alone. It ain’t like ya don’t ‘ave a bunk in the main room. But ya said he knew ‘bout us, what if he gave ya use of ‘is room ‘cause he knew we would appreciate it.

The thought of Spot’s secret flashed through Stitch’s head as he nodded at Fancy in agreement.

The two were settled down in the bed, Fancy on his back with Stitch curled up and using his chest as a pillow, before Fancy spoke again.

“Ya really impressive, ya know.”

Stitch looked up at him, brow furrowed in confusion. Dropping a kiss onto his forehead, Fancy elaborated.

“One day, ya a Brooklyn newsies, and the next, yous standin’ in as the King of Brooklyn and leadin’ the war ‘gainst Queens.”

Stitch smile, reaching his hands up to pull Fancy into a slow kiss. Barely pulling away when they pulled back for air, Stitch rested his forehead against Fancy’s and whispered.

“Thank ya fa havin’ my back, Fancy.”

“I always will.” Fancy whispered back, pressing one finally kiss to Stitch’s lips before the two drifted off to sleep.

————

Race didn’t envy Stitch for those six weeks. He could see the bags under his eyes deepen as the weeks went on, only lightening slightly after what the gossipers of the Brooklyn newsies referred to as ‘the Mrs Kirby intervention’. And so, despite having less calling him to spend time in Brooklyn, he stayed just as long as he usually did, playing with the littles and helping newsies of all ages sort out their issues without having to bother Stitch, who was stretched thin even without arguments over socks. If any of the newsies noticed before Flare did, they were too polite to mention it.

“Yous tryin’ ta make things easier fa Stitch, ain’t ya.” Flare confronted Race as they waited in line to by the afternoon paper. Just moments earlier, Race had noticed two littles arguing over a coin as Stitch carried out his daily check of Silver’s arm and had stepped in, correctly worked out that both of them deserved half of the dime, and settled the argument by exchanging the dime for two of his own nickels.

“So what if I am.”

“I ain’t complainin’ ‘bout it, he ain’t exactly ‘ad time ta get used ta bein’ king before Queens attacked. ‘M just wonderin’ why yous botherin’.”

“‘Cause I know what ta do. ‘M Jack’s second so I ain’t new ta this.”

Flare stared at him for a moment, as if she was trying to find some sort of hidden motive, before she nodded slightly and spoke.

“Just don’t ya exhaust ya self.”

Race did exhaust himself. Between selling his papers, running the Brooklyn bridge twice a day, and practically acting as the second for two boroughs, he barely had time to eat, let alone relax.

————

Spot spent most of his time in The Refuge thinking about how to put an end to Queens’ advance into Brooklyn. It wasn’t the only topic he tried thinking about but it was the only one that didn’t repeatedly lead him on the path back to thoughts of Race. It wasn’t that Race was a bad topic to spend time thinking about. This issue was, when he thought about Race, he also thought about forming a relationship with Race and how much easier that would be if he could just be a girl because then, if Race really did like him back, it wouldn’t be illegal. Then he would find himself thinking about his life before he was a newsies and how, no matter how strict the Orphan Asylum was, at least he wouldn’t be in prison. He could have stayed in the Orphan Asylum but he would have had to stay as a girl and then he would find himself counting all the ways that his life would be easier if he had stayed as a girl and then his thoughts would spiral down into every thought that Spot hated on good days but utterly despised them when he was sat in a prison cell wearing a dress.

In short, the six weeks spent in The Refuge felt a lot longer than they were.

————

After carefully timing his last sentence increasing offence, Spot managed to set his release date exactly six weeks after he first entered The Refuge. Stitch managed to visit on the fifth week, at which point Spot gave him the good news and instructions for how the night would go. Snyder had a cruel habit of tossing them out at one minute past midnight but, for the first time, this cruelty worked in Spot’s favour.

The metal gates clanged shut as Spot hit the pavement and scrambled to his feet, obeying the orders to leave and darting off down the street. With the corner Stitch said he would wait at being just a few turns away, Spot made it in no time. Hugging a quick greeting, the two set off for Brooklyn, sprinting down the open streets towards the safety of the Brooklyn alleyways. Once there, Spot wasted no time in trading his dress for his usual clothes and, with the dress safely stowed in Stitch’s paper bag, the two boys could finally breathe.

“‘M so glad ya back, Spot. I ain’t ever bein’ king ‘gain.”

“Don’t worry, I ain’t got any plans ta go back there.” Spot laughed out as the two began to quickly walk towards the lodging house; there may have been no reason to run but neither of them wanted to spend any more time than necessary on the Brooklyn streets so late at night.

“Glad ta ‘ear it. Ya ribs betta’?”

“The bruises are gone and I ain’t feelin’ any pain so I ain’t got any reason ta believe they ain’t.”

Stitch just nodded as he slowly pushed open the door to the lodging house. Spot shut the door quietly behind them as the duo snuck through the main room. They stopped at Stitch’s bunk, Stitch looking down at Fancy’s sleeping figure as he dug out the bundled dress and handed it over.

“Thank ya.” Stitch whispered, nodding towards Fancy. Spot didn’t reply verbally, merely smiled as he took the dress and returned to his room for the first time in way too long.

————

Stitch wasn’t fazed by the lack of a verbal response, they both knew what Spot had said. Stitch had his back so Spot has his. Kicking off his shoes, he slipped into bed next to Fancy. He stirred slightly at the movement, blinking his eyes tiredly as Stitch subtly kissed his forehead and whispered down to him.

“It’s ok, it was just me comin’ back from gettin’ Spot. Ya can go back ta sleep.”

“Ok,” Fancy mumbled, dropping off as he curled into Stitch’s chest.

Tugging the blanket fully over them, Stitch used the folds to hide the way he wrapped his arms around the smaller boy and held him close, drifting off to sleep as he held everything he would ever need to be happy.

————

As Spot entered the bunk room the next morning, he quickly realised he was the only one awake. The Refuge didn’t allow for long nights and the habit had been cemented during the six weeks. Glancing up at the clock on the far wall confirmed his suspicions that it was time to wake up and he began to wake them up as he always did, banging the tip of his cane onto the floor and yelling out.

“Mornin’! Up ya get else ya will be late fa breakfast!”

A chorus of tired groans rung out as he moved down the line of bunks, banging his cane against the ones he knew would need an extra nudge.

“Stitch, ‘ow come yous back ta sleepin’ in ya bunk.” Silver’s tired voice piped as Spot laughed quietly and stood behind him to speak.

“Well I ain’t gonna let ‘im sleep in my room forever.”

Silver sat bolt upright, his head snapping round to face Spot.

“Spot!” His yell alerted the rest of the room, who scrabbled out of bed to crowd around Spot. Spot crouched down to accommodate the crowd of littles who leapt forwards to hug him.

“Ok, ok, lemme breathe.” The group rushed to shuffle back as Spot stood. “Thank ya.” He surveyed the scene before him, eyes sharpening as he took in Silver’s broken arm, previously hidden from view by his blanket. “Silver, what ‘appened ta ya arm?” He asked carefully.

“Queens,” Silver mumbled.

“Ok, just checkin’ we don’t ‘ave ta ban ya from stairs.” Spot ruffled the now giggling little’s hair as he turned back to Stitch and watched as he fidgeted. “Ain’t ya fault, Stitch. Don’t ya get the mornin’ pape, I need ya to fill me in on what I missed.”

————

News of Spot’s return sped through the boroughs, aided by the terrified ramblings of a group of Queens newsies who tried to soak another little. With Hawk’s knee still not healing right and one of the most recent group having received a broken arm from Spot, the Queens newsies quickly withdrew from attacking Brooklyn’s littles. With the littles safe, Brooklyn continued to hold the border but made no real attempts to retaliate, it simply wasn’t worth the lost selling time.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey, I never promised to be nice to Spot. I hope you all enjoyed and hopefully I’ll have the next part up tomorrow (or maybe even today if uni work gets too boring).


	5. Summer 1898

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Spot didn’t mind Jack until an incident in Queens. This is all because Queens newsies simply don’t know when to stop.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TW: offscreen and unnamed character death, violence and injury (but you got through the first chapters so you are probably fine)

The Brooklyn newsies may not have a reputation with the adults of New York City, they knew them to be tough but nothing more, but they certainly had a reputation in the school yard. Rumours of vicious fights and stone cold leaders spread like wildfire and, whilst the newsies rarely interacted with the school-attending children of Brooklyn, such rumours did create issues when a kid was forced to leave school to become a newsie.

It was Flare who found the kid, curled up in the burnt remnants of his apartment building, and brought him to the Brooklyn lodging house. He looked as if he had barely been school for a year but he had already heard enough about Brooklyn to be utterly terrified of them, hiding behind Flare as they entered the lodging room. Race was still there when they arrived; he had been pulled into a poker game after he finished selling.

“Hey Spot,” Flare yelled as she crossed the room. “Found ‘im by that buildin’ that burnt down. Ya know, the one they mentioned in the papes.”

Spot looked up from watching the Poker game over Race’s shoulder, nodding at Flare in lieu of a greeting.

“Hey kid, what’s the name?”

He mumbled quietly, the words swallowed by the rest of the newsies.

“Sorry kid, I couldn’t ‘ear ya. They bein’ to loud fa ya?” He nodded so Spot stood up to yell at the rabble.

“Hey! Quiet down, we’ve got a new little and ya scarin’ ‘im!”

The room fell silent for a moment, then the noise rose back up to a quiet rumble; there was nothing particularly interesting about a new newsie.

“So, ya name is?” Spot repeated.

“Jesse.” He mumbled.

“Well, Jesse, the name’s Spot.” He held out his hand, forgoing spitting as to not shock Jesse, but the kid flinched back. Spot withdrew his hand without complaint.

“Spot Conlon?” Jesse stuttered out.

“Ya ‘eard of me?”

“The older boys told us about you.”

“Scary stories? I’ve heard ‘em all. They ain’t all true but ya don’t ‘ave to worry ‘bout any of ‘em if ya Brooklyn.”

Jesse nodded mutely but didn’t relax as he examined the room, eyes flitting nervously between the different groups of newsies.

“I betta’ go if ‘m gonna get back in time fa dinner. We ain’t sellin’ tomorrow but we’ll be back the day after.” Crouching down, she addressed Jesse. “Don’t ya worry, they ain’t as scary as they seem. I’ll see ya ‘round.”

With Flare gone, Jesse stared at his shoes, fidgeting nervously.

“So kid, ya know all the scary stories but ‘ow much do ya know ‘bout bein’ a newsie?”

“You yell loudly to sell your papers and you wear red.” Jesse glanced at Race. “That’s how the older boys told us to spot you.”

“Oh ya wonderin’ ‘bout me? I ain’t Brooklyn, ‘m ‘Hattan but I sell at Sheepshead Bay Racetrack. The name’s Race.”

“Why do they let you sell there? The boys said Brooklyn is really protective.” He stuttered out the last word as if he had heard it said, but had never tried to say it before.

“Oh they sure are but ‘m just too charmin’ ta say no ta,” Race flicked back his hair as he spoke, earning a timid giggle from the little.

“Charmin’?” Spot whispered into Race’s ear. “That ‘ow ya say easy ta soak in ‘Hattan?”

Race laughed as Spot lent back and addressed Jesse.

“Ya ain’t wrong ‘bout the yellin’ loud but littles like yous can act all sweet ta sell ya papes and sell far more than older newsies like me. Ya just gotta learn ‘ow ta pick ya customers. I’ll find ya someone ta sell with ya ‘til ya get the hang of it.” Jesse nodded slightly, taking a step back when Spot stood. “I’ll go get ya some betta’ clothes, ya can’t sell wearin’ green if yous Brooklyn.”

As Spot left, Jesse relaxed momentarily then looked around the room, clearly wondering what he should, or was allowed to, do. Race saved him from his predicament.

“Ya want me ta introduce ya to some of the other littles? They’ve been lookin’ fa someone ya play one of their games with; they ain’t got enough players.”

Jesse nodded as Race pushed himself off the floor. He didn’t comment on Jesse’s lack of a flinch as he held out his hand and lead him through the crowded room. He paused when he arrived at a group of bunks that had been pushed together to form one large bunk, easily big enough for fourteen littles between the two levels, despite only currently having four littles sitting on each level.

“Hey, yous were sayin’ ya need an extra person fa that game of yours, right?”

“You gonna play with us, Race?” Louis asked, bouncing where he sat.

“I found ya someone betta,” Stepping aside, he gentle urged Jesse forward from his hiding spot behind his legs. “The name’s Jesse, he’s gonna be sellin’ papes from now on.”

“Nice ta meet ya, Jesse! ‘M Silver.” Silver popped up from where he lay, previously hidden by Louis.

As the group began to introduce themselves and explain the game they had waited so long to play, Race slipped off to return to his Poker game.

————

When Race arrived in Brooklyn the next morning, Fancy called out to him.

“Hey Race!”

“Hey Fancy! Ya waitin’ fa me?”

“Actually I am. Spot wants ta see ya.”

As the two began to head for the distribution gates, Race continued the conversation.

“Ya know why Spot wants me?”

“I ain’t completely sure but if somethin’ ta do with Jesse. He was really upset ‘bout somethin’, I ain’t able ta ‘ear what.”

As the distribution gates came into view, so did Spot, Ed, and a terrified looking Jesse.

“Mornin’ Spot, ya wanted ta see me?”

Before Spot could respond, Jesse had darted to Race’s side and hidden behind his leg. Raising an eyebrow at Spot and Ed, he crouched down to talk to Jesse.

“Mornin’ kid, ya wanna tell me why ya upset?”

“I don’t want to sell with Ed.”

“Why not?” Jesse didn’t respond so Race continued at a whisper. “I ain’t able ta help if ya won’t tell me what’s wrong.”

“When I was walking to school, I saw him hitting another newsie.”

“The newsie, did he ‘ave a green necktie?” Jesse nodded. “Ya know ‘ow Brooklyn newsies wear red shirts and ‘Hattan newsies wear blue shirts? Queens newsies wear green neckties but they also come inta Brooklyn and try ta soak us. One of ‘em broke Silver’s arm so if theys in Brooklyn, we soak ‘em ta stop ‘em soakin’ us.”

Jesse stood thinking for a moment then spoke.

“So he isn’t going to hit me?”

“Not unless ya become Queens.” Race pretended to gag as he said ‘Queens’ earning a laugh as he continued at a normal volume. “‘Sides, Eddie acts all tough but he ain’t more mean than a kitten.”

“Don’t encourage the littles ta call me Eddie,” he growled, scowling when Race meowed at him. Jesse burst into a fit of giggles as Race smiled triumphantly.

“He saw ya soaking a Queens newsies and thought ya were gonna soak ‘im.”

The two older boys nodded in understanding then Spot spoke.

“I know ya ain’t gonna want ta leave Sheepshead fa long but could ya sell with ‘im and Ed today?”

“If I ain’t down at Sheepshead, I ain’t gonna know ‘ow the ‘orses ran and I ain’t gonna make as much from tips.” Race said regretfully.

“‘Ow ‘bout if ya don’t ‘ave ta pay a nickel anymore? Yous practically Brooklyn anyway.”

Race thought it over for a moment, estimating how much he would lose and how much he would save, before relenting.

“Ok, I’ll sell with ‘em.”

After the two spat and shook, the trio headed off towards Ed’s normal selling spot and, after agreeing that Race would sell just up the street, Race left with a promise that he wouldn’t be far away if Jesse needed him. As he fell into the flow of selling his papers, he kept an eye on Jesse who, despite his obvious nerves at being left with Ed, was quickly warming up to the older boy. By the time the trio left to buy the afternoon edition, Jesse hadn’t glanced over to confirm Race’s presence in nearly an hour and he chatted happily as they walked to the distribution gates.

Race was the first of the trio to finish selling, leaning back against a lamppost as he watch Ed point out another customer, Jesse bouncing off to make the sale. Race didn’t know the area well, he had never bothered to go to this side of Brooklyn before, so he was completely unaware of how close he was to the Queens border. Ed glanced over towards Race, his eyes widening.

“Race!”

Race span around as a fist collided with his cheek. Staggering back, he dodged a second fist and drove his own in to the first newsie’s nose. He spun, spotting the second newsies as he received a fist to the stomach from Ed, then glanced around, frantically searching for the third green necktie that he was so sure he had seen. He stared at the kid wearing it.

“Ed. Stop.”

Ed shoved the newsie backwards, the kid swaying heavily. The first newsie grabbed him by the arm and the two bolted.

“Ya got a reason?”

“They brought a little with ‘em,” Race said, his eyes not leaving the trembling little as he crouched down. “Hey kid, I ain’t gonna soak ya but yous ain’t suppose ta be over ‘ere. Do ya know ‘ow ta get back ta Queens?”

He shook his head. Race looked back at where Jesse and Ed now stood. With Ed being Brooklyn and in charge of looking after Jesse, there was no way he could risk going into Queens’ territory but Race knew exactly how he could get in.

“Race, ya ‘ave the same look on ya face as when ya win at Poker. Yous can’t be plannin’ ta enter Queens,” Ed said in disbelief.

Race winked, tugging out the Brooklyn shirt that he had eventually decide to keep in the corner of his paper bag. For how little weight it added, it had been useful on multiple occasions as Race crossed through more dangerous areas of Brooklyn. He tugged it on, leaving in unbuttoned as to show his Manhattan shirt underneath.

“Ya still ‘ave that?”

“Spot said ta keep it ‘case I ever need ta get through a borough who don’t like ‘Hattan.”

“Queens don’t like ‘Hattan or Brooklyn!”

“Queens don’t like anyone but they ain’t stupid enough ta start a war with both Brooklyn and ‘Hattan at once.”

Ed stared for a moment then shook his head in despair.

“Yous an idiot, Race.”

Race just grinned.

“Jesse, ‘ead back ta the lodging house with Ed and I’ll see yous two later.” Turning back to the Queens little, he continued. “And I’ll walk ya back ta Queens.”

The group separated as Race and the Queens little, who he had finally discovered to be called Maze for some unexplained reason, headed through the Brooklyn streets. The streets were mostly free of newsies but the few who remained, each with just a few papers left in their bag, watched the duo pass then vanished into the side streets, likely heading off to inform Spot about where he was going. Race didn’t comment on the vanishing newsies as the two wound through the streets, instead focusing on confirming that, despite the actions of the Queens newsies who entered Brooklyn, the Queens newsies were kind and looked after their littles.

The Queens streets were deserted of newsies as they walked through them, Race frantically trying to remember the route to Queens Newsie House; it had been a long time since Manhattan and Queens had held a meeting off neutral grounds.

Race had always felt a bit sorry for the Queens newsies. Without a charity owned lodging house, they had been left to create their own. The abandoned set of flats they had chosen was nothing fancy but it was better than the streets, especially in winter.

Rounding the finally corner, the Queens Newsie House rose up in front of them, a crowd of newsies circling a group of three figures. Race and Maze approached unnoticed, Race calling out as he reached the edge of the circle.

“Hey Jackson! Ya normally let ya-”

A fist to his eye cut him off, pain shooting through his face. Swinging viciously, he caught his attacker on the jaw and sent him reeling backwards. Race swore loudly.

“Ya always try ta ‘it guests or am I just lucky?” He quipped as he clutched his eye.

“Racetrack?” Jackson’s voice rung out from the centre of the group.

The group parted for the pair to enter, revealing Jackson, the King of Queens, and the two Queens newsies from earlier, who both looked sheepishly at Maze.

“I bring ya little back after he got left in Brooklyn ‘nd that’s the thanks I get?”

“Since when are yous Brooklyn?”

“‘M both now, sellin’ at Sheepshead but sleepin’ in ‘Hattan.”

“So ya choose ta where a Brooklyn shirt inta Queens whilst we’s at war.”

“Ya sayin’ ya wouldn’t soak me if I was wearin’ ‘Hattan.”

Jackson sighed.

“Ya ain’t wrong. So what’s this then? Proof ya both Brooklyn and ‘Hattan so we ain’t gonna risk soaking yous?”

“Exactly.” Race smirked, wincing as the pain flared.

“Right.” He grit his teeth, evidently annoyed at Races attitude but well aware that he was right and that his hands were tied. “Ya brought Maze back so get outta ‘ere.”

Race ruffled Maze hair as a goodbye then darted forwards, jumping up to ruffle Jackson’s carefully groomed hair, before landing and bolting down the street, annoyed yells following him as he shot towards the Brooklyn border. The streets sped past and soon he was safely back on Brooklyn soil.

————

The tension in the lodging house could have been cut with a knife. The newsies sat motionless on their bunks, watching Spot as he reclined on his throne, spinning the end of his cane absentmindedly as he thought. No one looked over as Race entered but Spot spoke.

“If Race ain’t back soon we ain’t gotta choice. Kelly might ‘ate Queens but he ain’t gonna forgive us if Race don’t come back in one piece. ‘Sides, Race ain’t Brooklyn but he might as well be.”

“We gotta go after ‘im!” Louis piped up, his bottom lip wobbling as he spoke. There was no way Race was going to let a little cry when he could stop it.

“Yous worried ‘bout me?” Race quipped, staggering backwards as Louis and the rest of the group of littles collided with him, dragging him down to wrap him in a hug. “‘M fine, ‘m fine, could ya let me stand?”

“No!” Came from the group.

Sighing dramatically, Race accepted his fate and settled cross-legged on the floor, all whilst still wrapped in the vice-like hug. Race peered between the little’s heads, making eye contact with Spot as he stage-whispered.

“Save me!”

Laughter broke out, the corners of Spot’s lips twisting up into a smile as he called out.

“Ok, yous know he’s fine. Let ‘im up so I can yell at ‘im.”

“If ‘m in trouble, I’d rather stay ‘ere.”

Spot laughed lightly.

“Race, I ain’t gotta yell at ya if I want ta punish ya. I’ll just tell Kelly that ya hid an injury from ‘im, don’t even matter if ya did or not.”

Race gasped as he shot to his feet.

“Ya wouldn’t!”

“I would and ya know it.” Laughter broke out at Race’s horrified expression. “Don’t ya worry, I’ll save that fa next time ya do somethin’ stupid. What I want ta know is, what the ‘ell was yous thinking?” Spot almost yelled the last part but Race didn’t flinch, just grinning as he defended himself.

“I was thinkin’ that theys ain’t gonna risk annoyin’ ‘Hattan and Brooklyn at once.”

“That’s the other question I ‘ave, Brooklyn is at war with Queens so why the ‘ell are ya wearin’ a Brooklyn shirt?” Race went to respond brut he was cut off as Spot raised his hand into a ‘stop’ sign. “I know, Ed told me that ya thought that yous being both would matter to ‘em. Did it?”

“Sure it did. Right now, Queens ain’t on good terms with ‘Hattan or Brooklyn but theys only actually fightin’ Brooklyn.”

“So if they soak ya, ‘Hattan joins in. It don’t matter if yous Brooklyn and ‘Hattan or just ‘Hattan.”

“If ‘m ‘Hattan, the worse ‘Hattan if gonna do is soak a few newsies, we ain’t strong enough ta do any real damage, but if ‘m Hattan and Brooklyn, Jack might talk ta ya and ya might attack together. Queens ain’t gonna win that and they could loose selling spots too.”

Spot raised an eyebrow.

“‘M impressed. Didn’t know yous so good at dealin’ with the other boroughs.”

“Really? Ya thought Jack came up with that deal a few years ago?”

“Suppose I shoulda guessed,” Spot laughed.

With the crisis over, the newsies shifted from their meeting into chatting and playing games, Race being dragged into a game of Craps by Pitch and Arthur.

It was only when Race was back in his bunk that he realised that Jack hadn’t mentioned his injuries. They were barely sore anymore so he assumed they were fine and went to sleep.

————

“Race!” He bolted upright at Jack’s yell before sighing a flopping back down.

“Ain’t ya ‘eard of wakin’ people up gently, Jack?” Wrapping his head in his pillow, he tried to convince himself to get up.

“Sorry, Race.” Jack continued at a more reasonable level for the morning. “Ya didn’t tell me yous were injured.”

“I ain’t injured. I got punch twice but they ain’t sore. They ain’t even red when I went ta bed.”

“Ain’t even red?” Jack spluttered as Mush snorted with laughter. “Yous blind sometimes, Higgins. If I’d ‘ad seen ya in the daylight I bet I woulda seen red on ya.”

“Yous really ain’t gonna let this go?” Race threw his pillow off his bed and stumbled to his feet before tiredly shuffling into the washroom, Mush, Blink, and Jack following just behind.

He snapped awake as he stared at his reflection. His cheek was bruised, not particularly badly though he had obviously been punched, but his eye was worse. Completely black, he looked as if he had lost a fight with a horse. He prodded at it twice before Jack grabbed his hand away and he looked at the older boy.

“Ok, I see what ya mean.”

“Who soaked ya, Race? Spot?”

“No! It ain’t Brooklyn’s fault.”

Jack gently but firmly pulled Race back over to his bunk and sat him down.

“Explain.”

Race sighed as he explained, starting with Flare finding Jesse and ending when he arrived back at the Brooklyn lodging house.

————

Jack shoved open the door to the Brooklyn lodging house, Race sheepishly following behind as he stormed across the room.

“Conlon!”

“Kelly,” Spot nodded as a greeting before looking over his shoulder at Race, his eyes widening. “Race? What ‘appened ta ya?”

“Ya didn’t know?”

“‘Course I didn’t know, Kelly.”

“I didn’t realise it was bad ‘til the mornin’,” Race broke in. “I surprised a Queens newsie when I spoke.”

The two leaders stared at him.

“Ya said ya got that fightin’ off the Queens newsies who came in ta Brooklyn.” Jack said, Spot speaking up moments later.

“And ya told me that you ain’t got hurt by Queens.”

A snigger came out of the crowd, silencing when the trio glared at him.

“I didn’t lie ta ya. I told ya the bruise on my cheek was from fightin’ with a Queens newsie in Brooklyn and it is.” Race turned back to Spot. “And I told ya that I didn’t get soaked ‘cause I was wearin’ the Brooklyn shirt and that’s true. The punch ta the eye was outta shock or somethin’ but Jackson admitted he couldn’t soak me ‘cause ‘m ‘Hattan and Brooklyn.”

The two leaders stared at Race then sighed and Jack spoke.

“He still shouldn’t ‘ave gotten soaked in Brooklyn.”

Spot glanced over at the clock then called out out to the rest of the room.

“Yous betta’ ‘ead off ta the gates before ya miss the papes.” He held a handful of coins to Stitch who took them. “Buy enough fa me, you, and Fancy. Fancy, ya can wait ‘ere ‘til Stitch gets back.”

As the two leaders stared each other down, the rest of the newsies filed out and Race settled down on a bunk across the room, Fancy settling down next to him.

Race gazed at Spot as he argued with Jack, perfectly calm and collected despite facing up against a boy who was twice his size. Spot’s hair flicked forwards as he spoke. Without breaking in his speech, he brushed the strands into position and Race swooned slightly. He couldn’t have pinpointed quite when simple attraction became a longing for a relationship but it had happened and Race was stuck with it, although not due to lack of trying. He would occasionally try to imagine a relationship with one of the posh girls who strolled along the beachfront or one of the girls working in the factories, especially the pretty one with the curly blonde hair who smiled and waved every time Race passed. It never worked. A nudge broke him out of his thoughts.

“Ya like ‘im, don’t ya?” Fancy whispered.

“What?” Race forced his voice to remain steady.

“Jack. I don’t ‘ave an issue with it if ya do like ‘im.”

“I don’t like ‘im, he’s like my brudda’.” Race paused before continuing the whispered conversation. “‘Ow come ya ain’t gotta issue with it?”

“There ain’t any reason ta ‘ave an issue with it.”

“Do like a fella like that?”

Fancy froze, nodding cautiously.

“Ok. I ain’t gonna tell anyone. Ya right ‘bout me likin’ fellas though.”

Fancy heaved a sigh of relief at Race’s words, following his gaze back to the still bickering pair. 

“Oh,” Race looked back to Fancy. “Ya like Spot, don’t ya?”

“Ya can’t tell ‘im.”

“I ain’t gonna but ya should know, he ain’t gonna hate ya for it.”

“He’s like us?”

“I ain’t sure-” Fancy shrugged. “-but he knows ‘bout me and Stitch and-” He groaned at Race’s smirk. “-what?”

“Yous two shared Spot’s room when he was gone. Did ya tell ‘im ta wash the sheets.”

“We ain’t that rude,” Fancy shot back, joining in when Race started laughing.

The quiet laughter caught the attention of the two leaders.

“Somethin’ funny?” Jack snapped out. “‘Cause I ain’t seein’ the funny side of this.”

“Easy Jackie, we ain’t laughin’ at what ya wear sayin’,” Race placated.

“Yous ain’t listenin’, were ya?” They shook their heads in unison.

Before Spot could continue, Stitch arrived back.

“Hey Stitch, what took ya so long?” Fancy called out as Stitch dumped a pile of papers on a random bunk and slumped down next to Fancy.

“A group of Queens kids came ta the distribution gates.”

“They soak anyone?” Spot’s full attention had snapped to Stitch.

“They tried but they didn’t get far, Ed and Bernard are draggin’ ‘em back ta Queens.”

“Good.” Spot growled out, Jack watching him carefully as he spoke.

“If theys going ta ya distribution gates then there ain’t nowhere they ain’t gonna go.”

“Jack,” Race piped up, “If theys try that at our gates, we ain’t gonna win without someone gettin’ soaked, we ain’t as used ta fightin’ as Brooklyn.”

“Ya sayin’ that like there ain’t fightin’ in ‘Hattan,” Jack scoffed.

“There ain’t, not ‘ow they fight. They soak littles like it’s nothin’!” Race shot back. “And ‘Hattan ‘as more littles then ever, we ain’t got enough older newsies ta protect ‘em all.”

“Brooklyn can ‘old it’s own but even we ain’t got enough newsies ta easily beat Queens.” Spot pointed out.

“What do they gain by goin’ ta ya distribution gate?” Jack mused.

“Theys plannin’ somethin’. I ain’t sure what but ‘m not gonna like it.” Spot growled, gritting his teeth.

A plan hit Race and he shot up to stand beside the two leaders.

“I’ve got an idea. Jack, if theys goin’ ta the Brooklyn gates, there ain’t no reason for ‘em ta go ta ‘Hattan’s next. We ain’t got as many newsies as Brooklyn so theys gonna manage ta soak a little or two before we stop ‘em.” With Jack looking suitably concerned, Race addressed Spot, who had watched the interaction with interest. “‘Nd Spot, Brooklyn got enough newsies ta hold the border but ta push inta Queens territory ain’t as easy. Sure, ya could do it. But ya gonna get more than a few newsies bein’ soaked.” Race gestured to both of the leaders. “So attack together. Ain’t gotta be more than once, just ya prove that ya ain’t gonna let ‘em push their luck.” Race sighed at the leaders’ sceptical looks. “Spot, consider it makin’ ya job easier. Soaking more of them and fewer Brooklyn gettin’ soaked. Jack, ya need this ta be over before a little gets soaked.” Race paused then sighed, lookin’ away sadly. “Unless ya don’t care if I get soaked.”

“Ya sell at Sheepshead, they ain’t go right down there.”

“Ya don’t know that. ‘Sides, ‘m sellin’ in Brooklyn so it ain’t right if I don’t help protect it.”

“I ain’t lettin’ ya go ta Queens if ‘Hattan ain’t joinin’.”

“How ya gonna stop me?”

Jack and Race stared each other down until Jack groaned and ran his hand through his hair.

“Racetrack Higgins, yous impossible.”

Race simply grinned.

————

As the group finally left the lodging house, a promise to meet up after selling to finalise the plan, Stitch threw an arm over Race’s shoulder and whispered into his ear.

“Yous clever, Race. Ya had ‘em in the palm of ya hand.”

“Spot’s proud of Brooklyn and Jack’s overprotective. Ain’t nothin’ more to it.” Race whispered back.

————

The next day, the whole of Manhattan and Brooklyn knew something was up. Every newsies bought less papers and by noon, there wasn’t a newsie to be found. The streets being free of newsies on a Sunday wasn’t uncommon, there was no work to do with no afternoon edition to sell, but the newsies rarely managed to sell the last of their morning papers before noon and they usually ended up selling until at least 1 o’clock.

Leaving Crutchie in charge of the gaggle of littles, the rest of the older boys followed Jack from the lodging house towards the bridge. Once the best fighters of the other Manhattan lodging houses had arrived and confirmed that the rest of their newsies were safety back in their lodging house, the Manhattan newsies crossed the bridge and ran down the Brooklyn streets to the agreed meeting point of Tompkins Park.

A harmonica sung out a trio of notes as the Manhattan newsies approached the park and the attention of the gathered Brooklyn boys snapped towards them. The crowd parted as Spot strode forwards.

“Kelly.” Spot spat on his hand and held it out.

“Conlon.” Jack copied Spot and the two leaders shook.

“Ya brought the rest of ‘Hattan I see.” He turned to the other five lodging house leaders. “Don’t remember yous except one. Good ta see ya again, Martha.”

“Good ta see ya too, Spot. Always nice ta talk ta a leader with a brain,” Martha quipped as she spat and shook hands with Spot, the two leaders ignoring the offended comments from the rest of the group of leaders.”

“And the rest of yous are?”

There was a hesitant pause before one of the leaders dared to speak first.

“‘M Edgar Welsh, leader of Forty-Fourth Street Lodging House.” Spot simply spat and shook hands with the tall, lean boy.

“The name’s Freckle, leader of Great Jones Street Lodging House.”

“I ain’t surprised,” Spot deadpanned, ignoring Freckle’s sigh of annoyance, it was hardly the first time someone had pointed out the freckles that seemed to cover every inch of his face and arms, and the two leaders spat and shook hands.

“And ‘m Ark, leader of Tompkins Square Lodging House.”

As the two leaders spat and shook hands, Jack spoke up.

“Ya know if Race is ‘ere yet?”

“‘M fine Jackie, all in once piece,” Race called out as he broke out from the crowd and approached the group, clapping Ark on the shoulder as he passed.

“Good ta see ya, Noah.”

“‘Ow do ya know my name?” Ark growled, grabbing Race by the shoulder.

“I didn’t.” At Ark’s look of confusion, he elaborated. “Ya know the story the nuns tell littles? Noah ‘ad an ark then he stole all the animals.”

“That ain’t the version I remember,” Martha laughed.

“Ya know what I mean,” Race scowled at Martha before breaking into laughter.

“Oh.” Ark released his grip on Race’s arm. “Sorry, nobody ‘as worked that out in years.”

“Well if it ain’t too much ta ask, we’s got Queens ta deal with.”

At Spot’s words, the light conversation fell away and, with one final confirmation of the plan, the newsies set off for Queens.

————

The newsies splintered into groups as they entered Queens and fanned out to different streets as they advanced; the last thing they wanted was for a group of newsies to sneak past and soak their littles whilst they were gone. As the groups moved towards the Newsies House, they brought the Queens newsies that they found with them; occasionally peacefully but frequently with more than a few punches getting thrown.

It seemed that half of Queens was gathered outside the Newsies House, perched on a variety of carts and crates which had become permanent fixtures of the street throughout the year. Jackson leant against a lamppost as a pair of newsies talked frantically, gesturing towards the unnoticed approaching group. As the pair paused, Jackson turned and stared at the approaching group.

“What you’d want?” He growled out.

Shoving the newsies they were escorting towards the Newsie House, the group of Manhattan and Brooklyn newsies circled the Queens newsies, cutting off their escape routes. The leaders approached Jackson.

“We want ta ask ya to dinner,” Spot smiled sweetly before scoffing and growling his next words. “We want yous ta back off and keep ya newsies in Queens.”

“If this is ‘bout Racetrack, we ain’t laid a fingers on ‘im once we saw who he was.”

“Told ya,” Race mumbled, earning a swat to the head from Jack. “But this ain’t ‘bout me, Jackson. Yous just ‘appened ta attack Brooklyn while Jack was talkin’ ta Spot.”

“So what ya gonna do bought it Jackson? Ya gonna call ya newsies outta Brooklyn and swear ya ain’t gonna ‘ead fa ‘Hattan next or do ya need some encouragement.” Martha glared at Jackson as she spoke.

“It ain’t my issue what my newsies do when they ain’t in Queens, any newsie know that. Kelly, why don’t ya take ya girl back home and tell ‘ere ta stop playin’ at bein’ a newsie. And-”

Jackson’s next words were cut off when a fist collided with his nose, a sickening crunch echoing through the street. No one moved. Then the street dissolved into chaos as the Queens newsies launched themselves forwards in anger.

The newsies fought viciously for just a few minutes of disarray before Jack ended it, leaping on to the cart and, grabbing one of the crates on the back of the cart, tossed it down onto the street. The thunderous noise of the crate shattering drawing the groups attention instantly.

“Enough!” Jack’s voice echoed through the silent street. “Break it up!”

“What ya playin’ at Kelly?” Spot snarled, joining Jack on the cart.

“We came ‘ere ta prove our point, maybe soak a few of ‘em to get the point ‘cross.”

“Ain’t that what we’s doin’?”

“No what we’s doin’ is soakin’ the whole lotta ‘em.”

Spot grabbed Jack by his necktie, yanking him down to his level as he yelled in his face.

“Theys attacked Brooklyn!”

“So? Ya can’t soak ‘em all fa the actions of a few newsies.” Jack’s skin had paled at Spot’s anger but he held firm in his words.

“We ain’t gonna kill ‘em.” Spot release Jack as he spoke, shoving him back as he turned away.

“Fights go on too long and newsies get ‘urt real bad.”

“That’s-”

“Race!” A high pitched squeal of joy had cut Spot off, the group wheeling around to stare at the sight before them.

The source of the squeal had been Maze. Having slipped unnoticed from the Newsies House, the little had shot through the crowd and wrapped Race into the biggest hug he could. Race remained frozen in shock for a few seconds before snapping out of his daze and bending down to hug the little.

“Ya ain’t meant ta be out ‘ere Maze.”

“I know,” he mumbled into Race’s shirt.

“Then why ya ‘ere?”

“Came ta see ya,” he explained with the earnest truthfulness that only littles ever have.

The crowd of newsies shifted awkwardly, none of them willing to be the first to restart the fight, especially not with both Jack’s orders and the little’s presence hanging above them. As the silence drew on, two lines formed: a line of Queens newsies and a line of Manhattan and Brooklyn newsies. Jackson wiped away the blood dripping from his nose and, glancing up and down the line, finally spoke.

“Perhaps we should talk ‘bout this.”

————

Jackson agree to keep his newsies in Queens—the current state of the Queens newsies was a very obvious explanation for his acquiescence—and, with a far more reluctant apology to Martha, the Manhattan and Brooklyn newsies finally left.

Race, who had spent the negotiations chatting with an overexcited Maze, refused to pick a side on the journey back to the lodging house. Instead he walked in the middle of the large gap between the two leader, Stitch walking next to him but closer to Spot.

“Ya know, I really thought ya plan was good.” Stitch commented cautiously.

“Might ‘ave worked if Jackson hadn’t been rude ‘bout Martha.”

Stitch hummed in agreement. There was a pause.

“Ya think Spot and Jack are gonna let this go?” Stitch whispered.

“No.”

————

Neither Spot or Jack did let it go, leaving Race wanting to live on the Brooklyn Bridge.

Spot stopped making quips about Jack and the Brooklyn newsies quickly realised that bringing up Jack was the quickest way to send Spot into a foul mood. Eventually the anger subsided and by the time Jack was mentioned again, nearly two months later, Spot reacted as he always had. The distrust did not subside.

Jack was less subtle about his anger, ranting angry about Spot’s cruelty until Race threatened to move to Brooklyn and he wisely ended his rant. His attempt to stop Race selling in Brooklyn ended with Race spending a night in Brooklyn, although he slept one of Sheepshead’s unused stables rather than make matters worse between the two leaders. The only saving grace for Jack’s actions was that they were brief. By the time that Race return from selling after his night in the stables, barely 48 hours had passed and Jack had calmed completely, only a light dusting of distrust showed that the disagreement had ever occurred.

Thankfully the rest of Brooklyn and Manhattan were less bitter about the events. Queens had stayed true to their word by keeping inside the Queens borders and, much to delight of newsies across the city, they got the best headline of the year to hark.

“Newsies at war! Read all ‘bout it ‘ere!”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I felt that Brooklyn and Manhattan were getting a bit close because of Race so this is me throwing a spanner in the works hehehe
> 
> I hope you all enjoyed reading and thank you for the comments! Uni is really hard right now but your kind words helped!


	6. Autumn 1898

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Spot makes the difficult decision to share his secret with a few, carefully selected, people.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter has a lot of discussion about being transgender but they use some outdated ideas so please don’t take this as a guide of what it means to be trans, I simply used these ideas because, in a world where trans people ‘don’t exist’ (obviously they did but Spot wouldn’t have know that) how do you explain being trans?
> 
> TW: there’s a drunk dude at one point who tries to start something but nothing happens

Spot didn’t trust many people.

He trusted Flare because of her unwavering loyalty during Roger’s attempt to steal the throne of Brooklyn, back when Spot had only just taken the throne.

Roger was a brute of a kid, nearly 18 and involved in the soaking of more newsies than the rest of Brooklyn put together yet, whilst most of Brooklyn was busy being terrified of Roger, Flare dragged Spot from the alleyway and hid him as she confirmed which of the Brooklyn newsies they could trust. It turned out to be all of them—Roger treated the Brooklyn newsies as cruelly as he treated every street kid—and Spot quickly returned to the throne. Roger ended up in prison just a few weeks later for killing a man as he tried to rob him.

He trusted Stitch because they were old friends. The friendship with Stitch had formed soon after Spot joined the newsies and where Stitch went, Fancy was never far behind so, despite them never forming such a close friendship, Spot trusted Fancy.

Spot didn’t make friends easily, the knowledge that he could lose everything if his secrets got out destroyed his easygoing side; at the age of ten he was still considered a little but he didn’t act like one. He acted like more like Brass, the King of Brooklyn at the time, with sharp words and a cold demeanour and it quickly became clear that Brass had chosen his replacement upon meeting Spot. He took him under his wing and, by taking Spot everywhere, he taught him how to lead. It worked; Spot knew how to lead Brooklyn by the time he took the throne just two years later, Brass having succumbed to illness during the bitterly cold winter.

Despite his demeanour, Stitch decided to befriend Spot and Fancy joined him on this endeavour. Stitch was the first to discover Spot’s habit of sneaking off after selling to work out in the abandoned warehouse by the docks—Spot like the masculine appearance that he gained as he did so—and Stitch and Fancy would sit on the abandoned machinery as they chatted, not minding if Spot joined in or not but always listening if he did. They sat on the same machinery when they visited him during Roger’s brief time in power, chatting and filling him in on the events of the day as Stitch checked his healing wounds.

With only three people he truly trusted, he valued their opinions and assistance more than anything. In truth, the events surrounding his stay in The Refuge had shaken him more than he would admit and had caused a thought that had been niggling in the back of his mind for months. There was occasions when his secret could be revealed and, should one of these occasions occur when Stitch was not around, his secret could be revealed because of his attempts to hide it. But if he was able to share his secret with just one or two more people, he would have people to protect his secret no matter where Stitch was.

————

“Stitch,” Spot called out as he approached. “I need ta talk ta ya.”

“‘Bout the marble?” Stitch asked as he looked up from his cards, tucking them against his chest to hide them from Fancy and Race’s prying eyes.

“What marble?”

“Nothin’!” Stitch yelped out, scowling as Fancy, Race, Pitch, and Arthur dissolved into hysterics.

“Anyone ‘urt?”

“No!” Stitch began stuttering words until Spot shook his head in despair and held up his hand and cut him off.

“Then I ain’t interested in ya mess. Come with me.”

The duo left the cackling group behind, weaving their way through the main room. Once Stitch had settled on the bed, Spot spoke from where he perched himself on the desk.

“Could ya explain somethin’ ta Fancy fa me?”

“Sure, what ya need me ta explain?”

“‘Bout me. The whole born a girl but ‘m a boy now thing.”

“Really?” Stitch’s face scrunched in confusion. “Ya want more people ta know?”

“I ain’t keen on the idea but I’ve been thinkin’. What if yous ain’t around and I get ‘urt? There ain’t gonna be nothin’ I can say that won’t make ‘em think ‘m hidin’ an injure or that ‘m hidin’ somthin’ else.”

“So tell Fancy on ya own terms or ya might ‘ave ta tell someone who ain’t gonna like it?”

“Exactly.”

Stitch sat for a moment, lost in thought, before speaking again.

“I ain’t thinkin’ of any reason why Fancy gonna dislike it but ‘ows ‘bout this? I tell Fancy ‘bout this fella I ‘eard ‘bout and if he don’t gotta a issue, I’ll tell ‘m that’s it’s yous.”

“I ain’t able ta think of ‘ow that could go wrong so do that.” Spot nodded as he spoke, leaning back on the desk, an unusual clinking noise rising from his pocket as he shifted.

Reaching into his pocket, he shifted through the contents, drawing out the only object he didn’t recognise as a coin. Holding it up for Stitch to see, he arched an eyebrow and spoke.

“This the marble?”

“I can explain.” Stitch mumbled.

“Ya can?”

“Sure-” Fancy paused. “-But ya know Race tells stories betta’.”

————

“So ya see, Fancy says ya is too aware ta be pickpocketed and I ain’t gonna prove that wrong by pickpocketing yous so I snuck the marble inta ya pocket when yous were at distribution.”

“Ya came all the ways up from Sheepshead ta but a marble in my pocket?” Spot deadpanned, staring down at the smirking Race.

“‘Course not. I got up real early ‘nd got ‘cross ta Brooklyn before the mornin’ edition.”

“Then where did ya get ya papes from? I ain’t gonna believe I missed yous linin’ up and buyin’.”

“‘Course I ain’t able ta buy papes without ya noticin’.” Spot arched an eyebrow and Race elaborated. “I ‘ad Fancy, Stitch, Pitch, Arthur, and Bernard by ten extra papes each.”

Spot stared for a moment before he sighed and walked away, ignoring the cackles of laughter breaking out behind him as he left the room.

————

Stitch counted the familiar beams of the abandoned warehouse as he lay sprawled out over the old machinery.

“I refuse ta believe yous comfortable there.”

Stitch let his head drop to the side to look over at Fancy, watching as the shorter boy shifted through the pile of coins in front of him.

“It ain’t like I ain’t ‘ad time ta figure out ‘ow ta lie on this comfortably,” Stitch shot back, earning a laugh in response.

Clambering off the machinery, Stitch flopped onto the floor next to Fancy, dropping his head onto his lap as he did so. Smiling dopily, he let his eyes slip shut, humming contentedly as fingers began to gently comb through his hair. The duo remained silent, only the sounds of clicking coins breaking through the sun-drenched room.

————

Fancy shifted slightly, dropping his coins into his pocket, then let himself drop backwards. He kept running his figures through Stitch’s hair as the two soaked up the rays of evening sun. Eventually Fancy spoke.

“Yous been wantin’ ta say somethin’?”

“Hmm?” Stitch kept his eyes closed as he hummed.

“Yous just kept lookin’ as if yous ‘bout ta speak but ya ain’t sayin’ anythin’.”

“I ‘eard ‘bout this fella, I wanted ta tell ya ‘bout ‘im. It just ain’t really somethin’ ya talk ‘bout if someone could be listenin’.”

Fancy reached down with his second hand, gently taking Stitch’s hand in his own and rubbing his thumb over his knuckles. Stitch smiled at the action.

“He like us?”

Stitch shook his head.

“He’s a boy but he ain’t born as one. He was born as a girl but he ain’t feel like one so he became a boy.”

Fancy’s hand froze for a moment then he began to curl his fingers through Stitch’s hair.

“So this person ain’t born right?” Fancy questioned, slowly and carefully picking out his words.

“I guess ya could say that.” Fancy remained silent, lost in thought. “What yous thinkin’?” Stitch finally asked.

“I ain’t got an issue with it.” Fancy said firmly, looking down to where Stitch lay and smiling at the boy who smiled up at him.

“Fa real?”

“It’s like us, ain’t it?” Stitch furrowed his brow in confusion at Fancy’s words. “All of society tells us we ain’t right. That somethin’ wrong with us. That ain’t true. They tell us boys are boys ‘nd girls are girls but what if they ain’t right ‘bout that either?”

“That’s why I ain’t gotta an issue with it. ‘Course I ain’t as good as explainin’ it as yous, yous gotta all ya big words ta help ya.” Stitch bopped Fancy on the nose as he spoke, laughing as Fancy rolled his eyes.

“Society ain’t a big word.”

“Well it ain’t a small one.”

Fancy tipped his head in acknowledgement, tugging gently on Stitch’s arm until he shifted and rested his head on Fancy’s shoulder. Stitch draped his arm over Fancy’s stomach as the two fell silent, soaking in a few more precious moments together before they would have to return to the lodging house.

“Are ya able ta tell me who yous was talkin’ ‘bout?” Fancy asked quietly. “I understand if yous ain’t able ta tell me.”

“He asked me ta tell ya.” Stitch tilted his head to watch Fancy’s reaction. “It’s Spot.”

“Spot?” Fancy stared at Stitch, clearly searching his face for a sign he was joking. “Yous tellin’ me that Spot managed ta become the King of Brooklyn in just two years whilst keepin’ such a dangerous secret.” Stitch nodded. “I ain’t ever gonna understand ‘ow he does it.”

“I ain’t got a clue.” Stitch shrugged and the two returned to their rest as the light faded to a dull glow behind the warehouse windows.

————

“Yous two plannin’ ta sleep ‘ere tonight?”

The voice sent the two boys scattering away from each other, spinning around to face the intruder.

“That’s gotta be a record for ‘ow far yous two ‘ave jumped at my voice,” Spot teased from where he stood, leaning against the door frame with a smirk on his face.

“I knew yous was doin’ this deliberately,” Fancy snapped as he took a deep, shaking breath.

“I’s gotta ‘ave a little fun.”

“So what, that’s ya fun fa the week?” Stitch quipped as the two boys joined Spot by the door.

“Exactly.” Spot glanced at Fancy as he spoke and Stitch, quickly catching the unspoken question, spoke up.

“I was talkin’ ta Fancy ‘bout ya.”

Spot’s facial expression dropped into a blank mask as he watched Fancy.

“I ain’t got an issue with it, Spot. Yous a fella if ya said yous a fella.”

The mask fell from Spot’s face, leaving a smile in its place.

“‘M glad Stitch ain’t wrong ‘bout ya.”

————

Spot might of had Stitch to help him with telling Fancy his secret but with Flare he had no such luxury. So he procrastinated. With Flare barely around during the evenings and with a lodging house to run, there was a surplus of activities to fill his time with and the conversation was pushed to the back of his mind.

————

Spot kept one hand on his cane as he walked through the dark Brooklyn streets. Despite the late hour, he was well over an hour away from the safety of the lodging house; he had spent the evening with a group of street newsies, acting as a deterrent to violence whilst the two candidates laid out their claims to become the group’s new leader.

“They ain’t gonna be ‘appy if they find our beds empty.”

The whispered voice crept out from the alleyway as Spot passed, barely audible even with the silence of the street.

“They ain’t gonna catch us, Thread.” The mention of a name that Spot knew made him pause. “We’ll be back before they wake us up and they ain’t gonna know we ever left.”

“I know yous right, Flare.” Thread laughed quietly as she continued. “It ain’t like we’ve been caught before.”

Spot’s mind frantically searched for how best to proceed. He knew Flare could handle her own in a fight but Brooklyn was dangerous late at night. The drunks, thieves, and thugs that roamed Brooklyn never traveled alone. He also didn’t want to force Flare and Thread home if they had a good reason to be out. The decision was made for him when a drunk voice boomed through the alleyway.

“Well ain’t you pretty.” The voice slurred. “Yous ain’t gotta use ‘er as practice, ya can kiss a proper fella like me.”

Spot darted into the alleyway, shoving the drunken man away from where he towered over Flare, her wrist slipping from his grip as he stumbled back. A fist flew past him and crunched into the man’s nose. The man fell to the ground, yelling a mixture of anger and shock as he staggered back to his feet. Flare stepped up beside Spot, glaring at the man in front of them but watching Spot out of the corner of her eye. Spot made a note to talk to her about the man’s words and shoved a punch aside, stepping forwards and cracking his cane into the man’s ribs. He dropped like a stone, hurt but conscious, and Spot spun to face the two girls.

“Come on, we gotta get outta ‘ere,” he whispered before heading for the street.

Glancing behind to check the girl were following, he twisted through a series of streets and alleyways until they were barely a block from the Orphan Asylum. Ducking into a doorway, Spot lead the girls up to the top of the building, only stopping when they reached the attic and shut the hatch behind them. 

“I found this a while ago, the woman on the first floor ain’t too keen on newsies and she chased me up ‘ere.”

“Ya took us ta a place that don’t like newsies?” Flare asked incredulously.

“It ain’t ‘ow ya get ‘ere that’s useful, it’s ‘ow ya get out.” Leaning over, Spot unbolted the small door in the back wall, pushing it open to reveal the roof top. “Ya crawl out there, step over the gap ta the other roof and then ya leave as if yous is leavin’ this buildin’. They ain’t even gotta bolt on that door.”

Tugging the door closed, Spot looked back to the two girls, Flare speaking up as he did so.

“You ‘eard what the man said.” Her voice stayed level but she shifted subtly, placing herself in front of Thread.

“He saw yous kissin’.” Spot lent back, giving the girls space as he did so. “He ain’t gonna be able ta tell anyone, he probably ain’t gonna remember this night at all.”

“You ain’t drunk.” Flare stated, staring unflinching at Spot.

“No I ain’t,” Spot responded, answering the unspoken question as he continued. “I ain’t gonna tell anyone but yous should know, yous ain’t the only newsies who like people they ain’t meant ta like.”

“This ain’t the same as Hoop’s mess,” Thread’s voice was light but the serious undertones shone through.

“I know it ain’t,” Spot laughed, remembering the fiasco. “I ‘eard he tried ta walk past her ‘ouse last week and her father called the bulls. But I ain’t talkin’ ‘bout chasin’ ladies who could buy ya four times over. Some of the fellas at my lodging house like fellas.”

The girls paused, clearly thinking over Spot’s words, then Flare shuffled back from her protective position, gently tugging Thread into her side and letting the smaller girl rest her head on her shoulder.

“Ya know of many newsies like us?” Thread asked, Spot sighing as he responded.

“I know of two. It ain’t easy ta find others.” Spot paused. “Actually three but that ain’t so simple, will yous come ta see me tomorrow after sellin’?” Thread and Flare nodded slowly as Spot continued. “I betta’ get back ta the lodging house, see yous tomorrow.”

As Flare and Thread said their goodbyes, Spot slipped out onto the rooftop. The girls kept the door open as he crossed to the other rooftop and opened the small door on the other building, shutting the door as Spot crawled inside. Tugging closed the door, Spot slipped through the hatch and darted down the long staircase.

Glancing up as he reached the street, he waved quickly to the girls as they watched from the rooftop. As they waved back, he turned and headed down the empty streets.

————

Spot flopped onto his bed, exhausted from the painfully long day. Curling up as he drifted off to sleep, one thought bubbled up.

How many newsies still think they’re alone?

————

“We ain’t the only ones,” Thread whispered once they were back in the attic, beaming up at Flare as she tugged her into a side hug. “I mean, I knew there would be other when ya told me ‘ow ya felt but-” Thread stuttered, looking for the right way to say how she felt.

“It’s more real now there’s five of us.”

“Exactly.”

Flare took Thread’s hand as the duo sat in silence, gently running her thumb over Thread’s knuckles as the night passed. Eventually Flare’s eyes began to slip shut.

“Come on, darlin’, we’d betta’ get back before ya decide ta sleep ‘ere.”

Flare laughed gently and the two made their way out onto the rooftops and back to the safety of the Orphan Asylum.

————

The next evening found the trio in Spot’s room, Thread and Flare sitting on Spot’s bed as he perched on his desk, explaining his secret. Eventually he paused and Thread spoke up.

“I think I get what yous sayin’.”

“Flare?”

“I ain’t sure I do.” Flare looked at Spot, continuing before he had the chance to explain further. “What I mean is, I ain’t sure I understand why ya want ta be a boy or why ya don’t feel right as a girl, but I understand yous was born a girl but yous a boy now, right?”

“Right.”

“Ok,” Flare smile apologetically, “‘M sorry I ain’t understandin’ ya, Spot.”

“It ain’t an issue ‘long as you ain’t tellin’ no one.”

“We ain’t gonna say anythin’,” Flare responded instantly, Thread nodding in agreement then furrowing her brow in confusion and speakin’.

“Why did ya want ta tell us, Spot?”

“Yous remember when I ended up in The Refuge?”

————

The next few weeks sped past and the cold began creep in, settling in Spot’s fingers as each selling day drew to an end.

“Spottie!” Race yelled down the street as Spot handed over a paper to a hurrying gentleman.

“Ya finished sellin’ early, Race?”

“Sheepshead was gettin’ real empty so I sold my last few on the train. Ain’t no point in stayin’ if there ain’t no one around.”

“True.”

The conversation continued as Spot sold his papers, Race leaning against a nearby lamppost as he watched, and then the duo headed back to the lodging house.

The silence in the main room rung out as they entered, the rest of the newsies still out selling. Spot examined the room before turning to Race.

“I ain’t able ta sit around, I ‘ave ta plan ‘ow ta keep this lot from freezin’ durin’ the winter but ya welcome ta join me.”

“Ok,” Race smiled and they made their way to Spot’s room.

————

Race didn’t leave as the evening drew on; he remained sprawled out on Spot’s bed, the two boys chatting slowly as Spot drew up plans to ensure even the less healthy newsies survived the winter. He knew that they would have enough coats but gloves always wore out and so they would have to purchase some more, or at least purchase the wool to make them, they had plenty of time if they started soon.

“Has ‘Hattan started ta plan fa winter yet?”

There was no response. Spot glanced over his shoulder, smiling slightly at the sight before him. Race had drifted off, his breathing even and a calm expression on his face as he slept, curled up on top of Spot’s blanket. There was no need to wake him, he still had time before he would have to return to Manhattan, so Spot let him rest, silently returning to his planning.

The calm of the room remained for a while, only breaking when a quiet knock came from the door.

“Come in,” Spot said, not raising his voice for fear of waking the sleeping boy.

The door opened to reveal Thread.

“We’s ‘bout ta leave and I thought I would come tell Race that. He usually leaves ‘round this time.”

“It that late?” Spot turned, reaching out to shake Race as Thread frantically whispered.

“Wait!” He froze. “Can I ask ya somethin’ real quick?”

Spot retracted his arm and turned to face Thread.

“What ya want ta ask?”

“Flare and I were talkin’ and we’s were wonderin’ if ya could tell us who the other two newsies are. I know ya gotta ask ‘em first but so we can look out fa each other.”

“I’ll ask ‘em,” Spot promised then he reached out, firmly shaking Race’s shoulder.

“Jackie, leave me ‘lone,” Race slurred, swatting at Spot’s hand.

“I ain’t Jack, Race.” Spot laughed as Thread sniggered from the doorway.

“Spot?” Race asked, eyes snapping open and darting around the darkening room. “Ya shoulda woke me.”

“When ya ‘ad been sayin’ that littles keep wakin’ ya up ‘cause of bad dreams?”

Race conceded with a nod as he stumbled to his feet.

“I guess yous leavin’?” Race directed the question towards Thread who nodded. “I betta’ get back ta ‘Hattan, see ya tomorrow Spottie.”

“See ya Race. See ya Thread.”

“See ya Spot.”

With that, the door swung shut and Spot was left alone with Race’s peaceful expression still fresh in his mind.

————

Spot, with Stitch and Fancy’s permission, called the entire group to his room the next day after selling, the five newsies chatting for most of the evening about every topic they had spent so long avoiding. Despite the joy of finding a group of newsies like him, Spot couldn’t help but wonder if his reputation would stop him finding a partner of his own. He had no close friend to fall in love with and such friendships were harder to form after ageing out; sharing a bunk on a bitterly cold night formed friendships far quicker than talking. And then there was the danger of revealing himself to the wrong person; Spot still remembered harking the news of Oscar Wilde’s trial like it was yesterday.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There wasn’t as much of Race in this chapter but I hope you enjoyed the tiny part he was in, I promise he’s in the next chapter more.
> 
> Thank you so much for reading!


	7. Winter 1898

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Fancy and Stitch’s relationship is discovered.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TW: this chapter is about homophobia and I wanted it to be as true to the time as possible. Please stay safe and there’s a little description in the end notes if you don’t want to read it. Simply scroll to the bottom, read the description, then scroll up to the 6th “————“ from the bottom. Scroll up 8 paragraphs to the line “Race nodded but before he could respond properly” to continue reading

“Ha!” Race slapped his cards onto the table, instinctively spinning around to watch Spot’s mouth crack into a smile.

Spot wasn’t in his normal position, watching Race’s cards over his shoulder. He had headed out shortly after Race had arrived, mentioning something about an issue in on of the other Brooklyn lodging houses. Race would never admit to missing Spot’s presence but his instinctive reaction said more than his words ever could. Turning back to the group, Race grinned and drew the small pile of coins towards him.

“Yous cheatin’, ya gotta be.” Pitch scowled as he spoke; he had lost the most money so far and nearly all of it was in Race’s pocket.

Race laughed loudly, his response cut off as the lodging house door slammed into the wall.

“Ya disgustin’ bastard!”

Two street newsies had entered. The twins took in the room before them, only a slash of a scar on the speaker’s cheek and the knife on the other’s hip to tell them apart. His captors distracted, the struggling figure between them lashed out viciously, smashing his fist into Knife’s rib as Scar launched at him. Catching his neck, he lifted him from the ground. Snarling something, he tossed the boy like a ragdoll. The noise echoed around the silent room. Scar turned to Knife.

“Ya shoulda let me at ‘im in the alley,” he snapped.

“Conlon woulda soaked us if we’d ‘it another Brooklyn newsie and ya know it,” the boy snapped back, continuing at a mumble. “Though that ain’t much betta’.”

“Ya feelin’ sorry fa ‘im?” His icy tone froze the room.

“I ain’t and ya know it.” Knife snarled back. “‘M just sayin’ Conlon ain’t gonna be ‘appy.”

“He ain’t gonna care. The freak ain’t gonna be Brooklyn fa long.” Scar scoffed, kicking at the figure on the ground as he yelled at him. “They don’t let freaks like ‘im in Brooklyn!”

The boy scrambled backwards away from the kick, staggering to his feet but swaying dangerously. As he staggered, Race snapped out of his horrified daze and sprung to his feet, dashing across the room to place himself in front of the boy.

“Leave ‘im be!” Race snapped, clenching his fists as he stared up at the two newsies. “What’s ya problem?”

“What’s it ta ‘Hattan?” Knife spat out, shoving Race backwards as he spoke.

Race darted around the hand pushing him, stepping back into his original position.

“It ain’t nothing ta ‘Hattan but I ain’t gonna let ya soak anyone fa no good reason.”

“‘Ow’s this fa a reason? He’s a fuckin’ fruit!”

Race looked over his shoulder at the boy behind him. Fancy stared back, terror drowning his features as they made eye contact. Race furrowed his brow in confusion.

“I ain’t sure what ya mean?”

Knife stared at him, looking seconds away from tossing Race across the room until a quiet voice broke the silence.

“Race,” Ed spoke cautiously. “A fruit is like those Bowery Boys yous got in ‘Hattan ‘cept he ain’t gettin’ paid.”

“Oh,” Race whispered he realised what Knife had meant. He swore internally, he would have to be careful not to incriminate himself as he tried to protect Fancy. Looking Knife in the eye once again, he spoke calmly. “So?”

“So?” The two boys roared as Scar stormed forwards, yanking him forwards by the collar and growling at him.

“Ya a fruit too?”

“I ain’t,” Race snapped. “I just ain’t gotta issue with it.”

“How?” Knife scoffed as he shoved Race away from him.

“It ain’t my issue who he kisses.”

Race glanced over his shoulder as the sound of shuffling broke through the room. Fancy had shifted closer to him as he stood, not drastically so but closer than before, and his eyes flicked frantically around the room.

“It’s illegal fa a reason.” Scar snapped, dragging Race’s attention back to him.

“So is playin’ craps but that don’t stop any of us.”

“Craps ain’t got nothin’ ta do with this.” Knife furrowed his brow as he spoke.

“Sure it does, theys both illegal ‘cause people say theys immoral.”

“Craps ain’t legal ‘cause theys tryin’ ta keep people off the streets.” Dime pointed out from his perch on top of his bunk. “This ain’t legal ‘cause God don’t like it. Every God don’t like it.”

Race burst out laughing, earning shocked stares from the entire room.

“When we’s ever doin’ somethin’ fa a god? I ain’t known a newsies ta go near a church ‘less the nuns are givin’ out meals.”

“It ain’t right!” Scar blurted out.

“Why?” Race asked calmly, staring him dead in the eye as he spluttered and fell silent.

The tense silence that had been drifting through the room settled as a thick fog. No one moved as the two boys stared each other down. Scar shuffled back slightly but Race remained motionless.

Race spoke.

“Why?”

No one answered.

“So yous ‘bout ta soak Fancy fa no reason?”

“We’s ‘bout ta soak ‘im fa bein’ a fruit.” Scar answered, slightly quieter than usual.

“But ya ain’t got a reason why that’s bad.”

“It is!” Knife snapped.

“Why?”

Silence.

Gently footsteps from the doorway caught the groups attention.

“I must say Manhattan, I have never thought of it as you have.” Mrs Kirby smiled kindly at Race. “You have made quite a persuasive argument.”

“Mrs Kirby?” Bernard asked slowly. “What do ya think we should do?”

“I am afraid I do not have an answer for you, I have some thinking of my own to do, but I think you need to make your own opinions on this matter. You live very different lives than most people do and sometimes the rules that everyone else follows are not rules that you need to follow.”

Crossing over to one of the bunk, Mrs Kirby handed a book to one of the littles and left the main room without saying anything further. As Mrs Kirby left the room and the door shut behind her, Pitch spoke up.

“Did Mrs Kirby just tell us we ain’t gotta obey the law?”

There was a chorus of confusion which simmered out as the group lost themselves in thought. Stepping away from the two street newsies, Race found himself next to Fancy. He desperately wanted to comfort the other boy but he didn’t dare move, didn’t dare break a newsie from their thoughts too soon and condemn them both.

Eventually a voice drifted up from the crowd.

“I ain’t gotta reason ta ‘ave an issue with it.”

Mumbles of agreement rose up as Scar spoke, the room straining to hear his mumbled words.

“I ain’t gotta reason.”

“Ya don’t?” Knife stared at Scar.

“Ya do?” He shot back.

There was a pause as Knife thought it over and conceded.

“I don’t.”

There was a pause then Bernard spoke up.

“This ain’t somethin’ that we can disagree on.”

“Why?” Someone called out.

“‘Cause we can’t ‘ave some people tryin’ ta soak ‘im and some not.”

“Ain’t it Spot’s decision?” Nickel said from his perch beside Dime.

“It ain’t my decision alone.” Spot said firmly as he stepped forwards from where he lent against the doorframe. “‘Cause as Bernard said, this ain’t somethin’ we can disagree on. This ain’t ‘bout sellin’ spots, it’s important enough fa yous ta reject my decision if yous disagree. If we’s are gonna ‘ave issues then I want ta know now.”

“‘Ow long ‘ave ya been there?” Race asked, staring at Spot who simply laughed at his expression before returning to his serious tone.

“All of yous move so I can see ya.” After a burst of movement, Spot continued. “All of yous shut ya eyes.” He paused as the group obeyed. “Raise ya hand if ya ain’t got an issue with this.” He paused, footsteps echoing out then silence returned. “Keep ya hands up but open ya eyes.”

Race spun around to take in the room. Every newsie had their hand up, some hesitantly but they were raised and that was all Race cared about. The sound of Spot’s cane snapped the attention of the chattering newsies back to him.

“It’s decided, even newsies who like fellas will be allowed ‘ere.”

“Do we tell the other street newsies?” Knife asked, a look of awe on his face that hadn’t faded since Spot revealed himself.

“No, I’ll deal with tellin’ the street newsies and the other lodgin’ houses. Race, I need ta speak with ya.”

Race nodded but before he could respond properly, the door opened and Stitch entered. Face red from exertion, he frantically glanced around the room before he spotted Fancy and let out a relieved sigh. Before he could move again, Scar spoke up.

“Yous the other fella.” Stitch turned towards the voice and visibly paled.

“What ya talkin’ ‘bout?” His voice trembled slightly despite his obvious attempts to keep it level.

“Stitch, it’s ok.” Fancy crossed the room, to stand in front of Stitch. “Race stood up fa me, said there ain’t a reason ta soak people like us, he was real convincing. Then Mrs Kirby said ta ignore the law and Spot held a vote. Everyone decided they ain’t gotta issue with people like us.”

Stitch didn’t move, his mouth stuttering slightly. Finally he responded with a whisper.

“Fa real?”

“Fa real.”

He turned slowly, taking in the room once again. He barely reacted to the nods and smiles he received, the gears visibly turning in his brain. He turned back to Fancy, the two boys watching each other for a moment before they both stepped forwards tugging each other into a hug

————

“‘M sorry fa leavin’ ya,” Stitch mumbled into Fancy’s ear, bending slightly to hold him closer.

“I told ya ta leave Stitch, ‘m glad ya listened. Theys were stronger than us. If ya ‘ad stayed, they woulda soaked both of us.”

“‘M still sorry.”

“And ya still don’t ‘ave nothin’ ta apologise for.”

————

The two boys pulled away, Stitch furrowing his brow in confusion.

“Mrs Kirby said ta ignore the law?”

Laughed broke out at Stitch’s tone, the room relaxing.

“I’ll explain,” Fancy said with a laugh.

“Race?” Silver piped up from his spot, hidden amongst a group of whispering littles. As Race gave him his attention, he continued. “What’s a Bowery Boy?”

“It’s a type of job in ‘Hattan.” Race explained carefully, ignoring the rising sniggers.

“Why would ya work if ya ain’t gettin’ paid?”

Race stared at Silver in confusion. Suddenly everything clicked into place.

“I ain’t explainin’ what a fruit is and I definitely ain’t explainin’ what a Bowery Boy is,” Race shook his head frantically as he spoke. “I ain’t Brooklyn’s second so it ain’t my job.”

“They really so bad ta explain?” Spot asked, raising an eyebrow.

“Theys littles. ‘Ave ya tried ta explain Bowery Boys ta littles?” Race asked dramatically.

Spot sighed at Race, a hint of a laugh tugging at his voice as he spoke.

“Ya ‘ad ta explain this a lot?”

“‘M second so it’s my job if Jackie’s busy. He’s always busy when a little asks somethin’ like this.”

Spot laughed at Race’s words.

“If ya ‘ave explained it loads, one more time ain’t nothin’.”

Spot headed towards the group of littles, one hand pressed to Race’s back to guide him forwards. Race groaned dramatically but didn’t complain.

————

One very uncomfortable conversation later, Race found himself sat at Spot’s desk. As Spot had explained, he needed to be able to show the other lodging houses and street newsie groups why they had decided to accept ‘fruits’. Race objected to the use of the word but Spot explained that it was a word that every Brooklyn newsie knew. And so Race was writing out his argument, desperately trying to make it legible enough for Spot to read. Once Race had left for the night, Spot would write the letters that would be taken to each lodging house and street newsies group the next morning. The letters were not orders to also accept ‘fruits’, such orders would be ignored, but they would reduce any anger at the decision. Though neither of the boys told the other, they were both desperately hoping that another lodging house or street newsie group would follow their lead.

As Race stood to leave, Spot spoke up from his perch on top of the desk.

“Thank ya, Race.” Race looked up at Spot, trying and failing to read his expression. “For sayin’ what ya said.”

“I ain’t said nothin’ but the truth.” Race paused then decided to risk asking the question gnawing at his mind. He kept the question as casual as he could .“Are yous like Fancy?”

Spot froze, paling visible, before he took a shaky breathe and spoke.

“Yes.” Panic set into his eyes as the word came out he continued frantically, his tone dark as the words tumbled out. “But don’t ya dare say nothing ‘bout it ta the others or-”

“I won’t.” Race calmly cut Spot off. “I know what it’s like ta ‘ave this secret. I ain’t able ta imagine anythin’ worse than someone lettin’ it slip.”

“Yous like Fancy and me too?”

Race nodded. Spot beamed, making Race smile at the sight and swoon internally.

“Ya know Spottie, ‘m real glad I ain’t alone.”

“There no newsies like us in ‘Hattan?”

“I ain’t found any.” Spot nodded and the two remained in silence for a few moments before Race sighed. “I betta’ get back ta ‘Hattan.”

“See ya tomorrow Racer,”

Race beamed at the nickname.

“See ya tomorrow Spottie.”

————

“Mush!” Race leapt forwards, clinging to Mush’s back as he staggered under the sudden weight.

“Get off Race!” He yelled over his shoulder as Blink broken down into hysterics at their shenanigans.

Throwing his shoulders backwards, he tossed Race off, Race’s yell of shock sweeping through the main room of the Manhattan lodging house.

“What’s gotten yous so excited?” Mush asked.

Race went to answer but his response was cut off.

“I thought I ‘eard ya, Race. Yous said ya ain’t gonna be late back today,” Jack scolded as he appeared in the doorway from his penthouse.

“Sorry Jackie, everythin’ ‘appening in Brooklyn tonight.”

“Ain’t Brooklyn always like that?” Jack quipped.

Race broke out laughing as Jack rolled his eyes and began to herd the rabble of newsies into bed.

————

“Aww!”

“Get off.”

“Yous were cuddlin’.”

The conversation dissolved into chaos that Spot wouldn’t have found easy to follow any time, let alone first thing in the morning. Banging his cane off the floor, he spoke up, fully aware of how exhausted he sounded. He hadn’t got much sleep as he had had so many letters to write.

“Leave ‘em be.”

The teasing quickly stopped; Spot didn’t ask twice when he was tired.

“I see you boys made your decision,” Mrs Kirby commented as she broke through the crowd.

“Did ya make ya decision too, Mrs Kirby?” Bernard asked.

“I did. I do not believe it is the worst thing any of you boys have done and I have never reported you for anything before, it hardly seems fair to start now. Besides, the most important thing is that you are safe and happy. If this makes you happy, I will support you.” She smiled at the two boys who smiled back, both looking close to tears. Her tone was firm as she continued. “I will not, however, support your apparent wish to starve. So out of here with the lot of you or else you shall miss breakfast.”

————

Something changed between Spot and Race in the weeks that followed. It couldn’t be said that they hadn’t formed a friendship over the past year and a half, but it had been tentative; Spot was far too cautious to trust so freely and Race dared not push Spot too fast. But mostly crucially, the shadow of their secrets lay like smog over the two of them, neither able to risk exposing themselves. As the shadow lifted, their friendship grew until the two of them were attached at the hip. Spot continued to watch games over Race’s shoulder but he watch with an arm over Race’s shoulder and a quip on his tongue. On the rare occasions that Race was neither at Sheepshead or playing a game, he could be found at Spot’s selling spot, chatting with the leader as he lent against a nearby lamppost, or sprawled out on Spot’s bed, the two boys chatting about everything and anything until Race had to return to Manhattan.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know this may seem like an unrealistic scenario but the Manhattan newsies did hang around the prostitutes (the male ones were known as Bowery Boys) and they also hung around gay bars. The fact was, they were misfits and gays were too so it would not be a stretch to say they accepted them (I have no info on Brooklyn but the story wanted them to be accepting).
> 
> The little description: Fancy and Stitch get caught kissing by two street newsies. Fancy gets dragged to the lodging house where Race argues there’s no reason to say being gay is wrong (especially as the newsies break other laws all the time). Mrs Kirby sort of agrees with him and eventually the group comes to the agreement that they don’t mind it.


	8. Spring 1899

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Race throws paint and Spot has never been so happy to be caught up in Race’s mischief.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TW: A dude is mentioned to kick a dog in one line but that is it - enjoy the happiness

The door of the main room smashed into the wall as Race burst in, Spot hot on his heels as the duo darted through the room, throwing themselves behind a bunk bed. Moments later, a man stormed in, red faced and drenched in white paint.

“Where are they?” He boomed as a chorus of voices rung out.

“Hey!”

“You ain’t a newsies, get out!”

“Where are they?” He growled.

“Can I help you?” Mrs Kirby calmly asked.

“Two of your boys threw paint at me.”

“And these boys, what did they look like?”

“Barely caught a glance at the bastards. One was tiny, carried a golden cane, and the other had a blue shirt on. I suppose that means something because most newsies wear red.”

“The blue shirt means he lives in Manhattan and I very much doubt any of these boys can afford a golden cane. If I was you, I would look elsewhere.”

“They’re here!”

“Did you see them arrive?”

“Well I-” he stuttered. “No.”

“Then I’m afraid I must ask you to leave.”

The man stormed out, the door crashing behind him. The room fell silent for a few minutes.

“Spot Conlon! Manhattan! Get out here this instant!” Mrs Kirby yelled.

Neither boy moved. Slowly, they poked their heads up over the bunk bed to examine the room. Mrs Kirby stood in the centre of the room, hands on her hips and an angry, yet slightly amused, expression. Every newsie watched with a look of intense curiosity on their face. Slowly they stood, making their way through the crowd to stand in front of Mrs Kirby.

“You boys have some explaining to do.”

They made eye contact then Race spoke up.

“I was talkin’ ta Spot and I saw ‘im kick a dog. I ain’t gonna let ‘im do that and theys was paintin’ somethin’ on a buildin’ so I threw one of the paints at ‘im. Pretended I tripped and all that. ‘Pparently his coat was real expensive.” Race smirked.

Mrs Kirby rolled her eyes at his smug expression and turned to Spot.

“And how were you involved in this?”

“I ain’t gonna stick ‘round and get blamed. ‘Sides, who else is gonna keep Race alive?”

Mrs Kirby watched them for a few moments then sighed.

“Just make sure you get that paint off of your shirts before it stains.”

As the door swung closed behind her, Spot and Race broke down in hysterics, grinning wildly.

“Did ya see ‘is face?” Race cackled.

“Yous an idiot sometimes, Race.” Spot laughed out, throwing an arm over Race’s shoulder. “Let’s get that paint off ya.”

————

No one moved as the door swung shut behind the duo. The room was silent.

“That was odd.” Ed mumbled, receiving a wave of slow nods in return.

“I ain’t seen Spot as ‘appy as that before.” Jesse piped from where he sat next to Louis, who tipped his head to the side as he responded. 

“You ain’t even been a newsie fa a year.”

“I almost ‘ave. ‘Sides, it’s still a long time ta be sad.”

“True.”

The room returned to silence.

“I ain’t sure he’s ever laughed or smiled like that.” Bernard mused, looking at Stitch and Fancy who nodded slowly in agreement, glancing at each other in silent conversation.

————

With a quick detour to the washroom to grab a bucket of water, the two boys settled themselves down on the bed in Spot’s room. Race dipped the washcloth into the bucket of water and began to wipe off the paint splattered across his shirt. Spot flopped backwards, unhooking both his cane and his slingshot and placed them down on the floor.

“Why do yous learn ta use the slingshot?” Race glanced down at Spot’s sprawled out figure.

“I ain’t really sure,” Spot shrugged. “I ain’t somethin’ that started after I arrived.” He paused. “It don’t ‘urt ta learn though.”

“True.”

Spot propped himself up to speak.

“Why do ya ask?”

“I didn’t see a reason fa it and I ‘ave been sellin’ in Brooklyn fa ages.”

“I’ll ‘ave ta teach ya sometime.”

Race paused, setting down his cloth and brushing down his paint-free shirt as he looked down at Spot.

“Fa real?”

“Ya Brooklyn ain’t ya?” Spot smiled at Race’s delighted expression, his smile fading into a concerned frown at Race’s increasingly mischievous smirk. “What?”

“I ain’t gotta learn ta use a slingshot when I can beat ya like this.”

Spot yelped, bolting upright as a handful of water splashed onto his face. Leaping up, he tackled the cackling Race on to the bed, who squealed as Spot’s fingers dug into his sides, tickling mercilessly.

“S-Stop!” The tickling continued as Race gasped for breath between his laughs. “‘M sorry, ‘m sorry!”

Spot paused, letting Race recover from his torment before he spoke.

“Ya said ya could beat me?”

Race glared up at the smirking Spot.

“Still could.” He declared, his eyes widening as Spot’s fingertips pressed against his sides as a teasing warning. “I take that back! Ya would win every time.”

“That’s better.” Spot threw his head back as he laughed, but when he looked back down at Race, the two boys froze.

With just inches between them, neither moved.

Race gazed up into Spot’s eyes, losing himself in his piercing gaze. Neither would ever be able to say who leant in first, their eyes drifting shut as their lips met in a kiss that felt like coming home. Like nothing else would be as true and right as the two of them together.

Time slowed down.

Race gently pulled back for air, dropping slowly back to the bed.

Spot’s eyes widened at Race’s actions, pushing himself backwards to sit on his heels as he began to speak, sincerity in his eyes.

“Racer, ‘m sorry I shoulda asked and ya have every right ta ‘ate me for-”

“Hey,” Race soothed, sitting up as he reached out to cup Spot’s cheek. “Ya ain’t gotta be sorry.”

“Ya know ya can say no and I ain’t gonna be mad. I ain’t gonna stop ya sellin’ in Brooklyn or nothin’.” Spot rested his hand over Race’s hand, holding it as he spoke.

“Spot Conlon, ya couldn’t get me outta Brooklyn if ya wanted to, the littles like me too much.” Spot laughed lightly at Race’s words. “But even if ya could, I know ya wouldn’t do somethin’ like that.”

“Ya sure?”

“‘M sure. And I ain’t gonna be mad if ya want ta say no.”

“I know, Racer.” Spot’s sincerity filled his voice and so Race relaxed. When Spot continued, his voice was teasing. “Ya ain’t gonna set Jack after me?”

“And risk ‘im tryin’ ta be my mudda? No way.”

Race decided that Spot’s carefree laugh was his favourite sound.

“Spottie?” When they made eye contact, Race continued. “Would ya let me kiss ya?”

Gently moving forwards, Spot leant his forehead against Race’s forehead, whispering just loud enough for him to hear.

“Kiss me, Racer.”

Spot didn’t have to ask twice. Race leant forwards and kissed him gently, his hand still cupping his cheek as he held him close. Spot’s hand drifted from where it lay on top of Race’s hand, reaching forwards to wind his fingers through Race’s curls. With his hand holding them close, Spot pressed forwards, guiding Race down to the bed.

They finally broke back for air, breathing heavily as they rested their foreheads together, sharing air whilst they held each other close. Race reached up, his fingers brushing a stray curl away from Spot’s eye, silently noticing how soft it was. Tugging gently at Spot’s arm, the two boys shifted until they both lay on their sides, curled towards each other in the darkening room.

“Racer?” Spot whispered. “What are we now?”

Race paused, thinking.

“Datin’? If ya want ta be.”

“I would love ta be,” Race beamed as Spot continued. “Why ain’t I surprised ya call it datin’?”

“What’s wrong with callin’ it datin’?”

“I just ain’t ‘eard anyone actually call it that before ‘cept in the papes.”

“Fa real? All of ‘Hattan calls it datin’.”

Spot rolled his eyes, bopping Race on his nose.

“Yous ‘Hattan boys would change ya language if the papes told ya to.

“Sei geloso?” Race cracked up at Spot’s confused expression. “I was askin’ if ya is jealous. It’s Italian.”

“And ‘ere I was, thinkin’ yous is just spendin’ a lotta time in the sun.”

Race laughed for a moment before looking up at the dark room and sighing.

“I betta get back ta ‘Hattan.”

Groaning, Spot rolled to his feet and vanished into the dark room, only to be lit by the lamp on his desk moments later. Leaning back against the desk, he held out his hand to Race, tugging him closer when he took it. With a hand on Race’s cheek, he paused then slowly kissed him.

Race could feel him smile under his lips as he brought his arms up, wrapping them around Spot’s shoulders. Two arms wrapped around his waist, holding him so gently as he made him never want to leave.

Pulling back, Spot examined Race, brushing a curl of hair back into place.

“They ain’t gonna know ‘less ya tell ‘em,” Spot reassured as Race looked him over.

“They ain’t gonna know from you either.” He paused. “I ain’t gonna be able ta let the rest of Brooklyn find out.”

“Then I ain’t gonna tell ‘em.” Spot smiled reassuringly. “‘Cause ‘Hattan don’t know?”

Race nodded.

“Thank ya fa not tellin’ ‘em.”

Race wrapped Spot in a tight hug and then the duo left Spot’s room, Race heading back to Manhattan with a spring in his step as Spot began to wrangle the newsies into bed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WE ARE FINALLY HERE! I thought I would upload this today because last chapter wasn’t so light and this chapter most definitely is. But don’t think this is their happily ever after, I’m not that kind.


	9. Summer 1899

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The chapter you all knew was coming... STRIKE

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TW: not explicitly said but there is a panic attack and canon-typical violence because... well this is literally set during the canon.

“You truly are rather impressive.”

Race spun towards the voice, smiling politely when he recognised him as a man he had given a tip and a paper to earlier.

“Ya took my tip?”

“I did.” He held out a perfectly clean hand with a small pile of coins. “Take them.”

Race stared, motionless.

“All of ‘em?”

“All of them. I hardly would have won them without you.”

Cautiously reaching out, he scooped the coins into his hand and dropped them into his pocket. The man didn’t make a single move to grab him.

“Thank ya, mister.”

“So why do you give out such tips? In hope that you shall be correct and you will receive a tip?”

“That’s right. The betta’ I do, the betta’ tips I make and the betta’ I eat.”

He looked Race up and down in a discerning way as Race fidgeted in embarrassment. After an eternity, he spoke.

“So how do you know which horses are going to win?”

“Lookin’ at the odds, rememberin’ ‘ow they did in the past, that sorta thing.”

“I suppose you are wondering why I ask?”

“Kinda,” Race mumbled under his breath but the man either ignored him or didn’t hear.

“I work at the racetrack and I see you each morning. My colleagues and I are constantly being asked if you work for us, no one can quite believe how reliable you are. Just last week you predicted that a terribly performing horse would win and they did.”

“They were holdin’ the horse back in the other races, ain’t that known?”

The man laughed in disbelief.

“No it is not. You can barely see the races from here so how could you possible know they were holding them back.”

“Ya ain’t gotta see the whole race to know.” Race shrugged then yelped in shock.

He spun on his heel, launching a punch at his attacker who easily pushed it out his way.

“Good ta see ya too, Racer.” Spot teased as Race scowled.

“Don’t ya do that.” He turned back to the man, laughing slightly when he glimpsed Spot’s smug expression out the corner of his eye.

“So your name is Racer?” The man asked.

“Racetrack or Race fa short. Only a few call me Racer.” He paused, thinking back on the conversation. “Ya ain’t told me ya name.”

“John Hawdon.” Mr Hawdon glanced over Race’s shoulder, speaking with a level voice, as if he was forcing it to remain calm. “I have no intentions to hurt your friend, you need not worry.”

Race glanced over his shoulder, shaking his head at Spot who stood with his arms crossed, his jaw set firmly as he glared at Mr Hawdon.

“Ya ain’t gotta glare at ‘im, Spottie.” Race admonished, the laughter in his eyes betraying him.

“Someone’s gotta keep ya outta trouble,” Spot teased as he relented slightly, tossing his arm over Race’s shoulder.

“Am I allowed to ask you for your name?” Mr Hawdon glanced down at the cane hanging from Spot’s hip, a confused expression on his face.

“Spot Conlon.”

Mr Hawdon’s eyes widened in recognition.

“They call you the King of Brooklyn. My son has mentioned you, he tells me all the stories his classmates tell about you. You have quite the reputation.”

“He’s a kitten when ya know ‘im.” Race cackled at Spot’s scowl, throwing his head forwards to avoid the slap heading towards the back of his head.

“Well I must be going, good evening.”

As Mr Hawdon turned to leave, Race called out.

“Why did ya want ta ask all those questions?”

“Simply curious.” He paused, turning back towards Race. “You are quite clearly a bright boy and I would hate to see such talent go to waste so when you turn eighteen, come inside and ask to speak with me. I am certain I shall be able to find you a job in which your talents can be put to good use.”

With a nod, he walked away leaving a dumbstruck Race behind him. Gathering his senses, Race called out to the vanishing figure.

“Thank ya, mister.”

As Mr Hawdon vanished into the crowd, Race beamed at Spot.

“Ya ‘ear that, he’ll give me a job!”

“Ya I ‘eard it. Yous gonna be all fancy ‘fore ya know it.”

With Spot’s arm as the only thing keeping Race from jumping for joy, the two boys began to stroll back towards the lodging house. The walk could take hours if they didn’t take the train but neither boy cared. Often they would walk half of the way and then train the rest so they arrived back before dinner but at least once a week they would walk the whole way, chatting slowly and making the most of their alone time. Stopping by a bakery for dinner, Race brought them both a roll of some form, blankly refusing to let Spot pay when Mr Hawdon had tipped him so well, and they continued to walk as they ate. When Spot finally finished, Race having scoffed his roll down in seconds, Race spoke up.

“The Brooklyn Key, what does it unlock?”

“The door ta my room, it ain’t nothin’ special.”

“Then why do ya carry it everywhere?” Race probed.

“It ain’t the key that’s special, it’s what’s in it.” Spot explained.

He lifted the key up and turned it over, pointing to a seam that ran the length of the handle. Digging a blunt finger nail under one side, he popped it open, laughing when Race jumped in shock.

“Every King of Brooklyn puts somethin’ in it case somethin’ ‘appens ta ‘em.” He held up a tiny key then placed it back and flicked open the top of his cane to reveal a tiny lock. “There’s a note in there, it ain’t small enough ta fit in the key.”

“And ‘ere I thought ya just liked ‘ow it looked.” Spot laughed at Race’s comment, subtly squeezing his shoulder as they continued down the darkening streets.

————

Spot wasn’t the only visitor that Race had at Sheepshead over the summer. Mr Hawdon visited almost regularly and he never left without a paper and a tip or two about the upcoming races. His presence wasn’t unwelcome yet it threw Race off; gentlemen never made a point to talk to a newsie and most went out of their way to make their interactions as short as possible. Had Mr Hawdon simply grown bored of Race, he wouldn’t have been surprised. But he didn’t.

The first half of the summer passed slowly, a daze of sun filled days and precious moments with Spot.

————

When Pulitzer hiked up the price of the papers, Race quickly volunteered to take the news of the strike to Midtown. He told himself that it would be unfair to make Spot feel that he had to join something as risky as a strike just because of his relationship with Race but that wasn’t the whole truth. He was terrified that they would argue over it and ruin what they had. So he let Jack take Boots and Davey to Brooklyn.

————

Spot had no complaint about the lack of Race. Instead he was thankful that it was Jack he was turning down instead of the cheeky boy that he had so much trouble saying no to. He would have turned them down no matter who had come; the last time he had seen Jack had been in Queens and the memory of Jack’s words was still fresh in his mind. If Spot was right and Jack hadn’t changed, it would be Brooklyn who suffered. After all, if Jack had backed out of soaking a few newsies, how would he react if the bulls showed up.

The rest of the Brooklyn newsies didn’t approve of Spot’s choice. Quite possibly the only reason why the rest of the Brooklyn newsies didn’t disobey Spot and join Manhattan anyway was the worried look that Spot had for the rest of the day. They could see the way that the thought of one of their own being in danger worried him but Spot couldn’t risk every Brooklyn newsie for the sake of one Brooklyn newsie.

No one commented on the constant fiddling, the way he plucked at his slingshot and shifted through the marbles in his pocket, as they waited for news.

————

Before Jack and Davey left for The Refuge, he told them to make sure that Brooklyn knew what had happened. With just a glance around the main room, Race knew that there was no one to send in his place; the boys where shaken up enough for one day. Leaving Mush and Blink in charge, a role that would normally to the far more sensible Crutchie, Race headed for the bridge.

As he walked through the streets, he finally managed to take stock of his injuries; he had been too focused on the rest of the newsies to check on himself. He could tell that none of them were serious but his jaw ached and he wouldn’t have been surprised if he was covered in bruises. Despite the thrums of pain, Race remained thankful that he hadn’t been hurt as badly as some of the others.

As he pushed open the door to the main room of the Brooklyn lodging house, every head snapped up. He examined the room, taking in the lack of games being played; even the littles were sitting on their bunks, clearly having been in the middle of a conversation when Race arrived.

“Spot ‘round?”

Race’s voice snapped them out of their daze. Silver, Jesse, and Louis leapt off their bunks, crushing Race into a hug.

“Good ta see yous in one piece, Race,” Stitch called over the excited chattering of the littles, the group around him nodding in agreement as he spoke.

Out the corner of his eye, Race spotted Dime vanish down the corridor towards Spot’s room.

“Ya know, ‘m quite ‘appy ta be in one piece too.” Race quipped but even he could hear the lack of humour in his voice; the events of the day didn’t put him in the mood to joke around.

“Jack didn’t back out I see.” Spot commented as he crossed the room.

“He said he wouldn’t.” Race tried not to blame Spot, he had a responsibility to keep his boys safe, but with Crutchie in The Refuge and the rest of the lodging house nursing a variety of wounds, his patience was wearing thin.

“Yous right, Brooklyn will be there tomorrow,” Spot promised, a wave of excitement rippling throughout the room.

Race barely smiled at his words.

“Ya betta’, Spot.”

Spot looked him up and down before sighing and speaking.

“Come with me.”

Race didn’t object, following Spot to his room. Once there, Spot looked at Race with a hint of sadness in his eyes. He didn’t intrude on Race’s space, standing far enough away as not to suffocate him.

“Race. I know ya ain’t ‘appy with me but ya gotta see my side of this. Jack backed outta soakin’ Queens, I ‘ad nothin’ ta say he ‘ad changed,” Spot reasoned, his firm but level tone making Race take a deep breath before he spoke.

“I ain’t mad with ya.”

“But ya ain’t ‘appy with me.”

The statement hung in the air.

“No.” Race sighed. “But I get that ya ‘ave gotta look out fa Brooklyn.” He paused, unsure if he wanted to risk Spot going back on his word. “Ya promise ya will be there tomorrow?”

“I promise.”

Race smiled at the sincerity in Spot’s voice, taking Spot’s outstretched hand and letting himself be guided down to a sitting position on the bed. Spot wrapped his arm around Race’s waist as they sat side by side, leaning against the wall.

“Are ya ok?”

Race looked down at Spot as he brought his hand up, drifting his hand over Race’s cheek with concern in his eyes.

“I ain’t ‘urt.”

“But?” Spot coaxed.

Race dropped his head, Spot’s hand supporting him.

“They took Crutchie ta The Refuge.” Crutchie might not have been one of Race’s closest friends but the newsies were family and the thought of any of their own suffering crushed down on Race. “I ain’t sure if they ‘urt ‘im yet but they ain’t gonna care ‘bout his leg, they ain’t gonna be nicer ta ‘im, and kids like ‘im die in The Refuge and-”

He knew he was rambling but he couldn’t stop.

“-what if he gets sick, they ain’t gonna call a doctor, and they ain’t gonna let anyone ‘elp ‘im and then he ain’t gonna-” His breathe caught in his throat.

“Breathe,”

A hand took his, placing it against fabric.

“Breathe, Racer.”

The fabric moved under his hand.

“In, out, in, out,”

He tried to steady his breaths.

“In, out, in, out,”

Slowly he began to manage it, his breaths lining up with the words. A hand brushed through his hair.

“Ya with me?”

Race brought his head up, his mouth twitching into a small smile as Spot appeared.

“‘M sorry,” he mumbled, he knew the events of the day were affecting him but he didn’t think he would stop breathing over them.

“Ya don’t gotta be,” Spot drew him into his side, wiping away tears that he didn’t realise had fallen.

He slumped into Spot’s side, focusing on the hand brush through his hair. He wouldn’t have been able to tell Spot how long he sat there. He didn’t move. He couldn’t move but the hand didn’t leave his hair and Spot stayed next to him so he was ok.

“Hey Racer?” He hummed in response. “You able ta stay tonight?”

He shook his head, forcing himself to sit up properly.

“I gotta get back ta ‘Hattan. I left Mush and Blink in charge and I ain’t sure they ain’t gonna burn the place down.”

“What ‘bout Jack?”

“Tryin’ ta break Crutchie out but I ain’t sure Crutchie’s gonna go.” Spot’s confused expression made him continue. “Crutchie don’t like bein’ ‘elped. If he ain’t able ta walk outta there, he ain’t gonna go.”

“Sounds fair.”

They sat in silence until Race shook his head clear and spoke.

“I gotta go.”

Spot reached out, cupping Race’s cheek and drawing him towards him. Their lips met in a kiss, brief but gentle. As they broke apart, Spot whispered to Race.

“I’ll see ya tomorrow in Manhattan.”

Race smiled and headed back to the Manhattan lodging house.

————

No matter how much Mush and Blink tried to deny it, Race was certain that shelf hadn’t been on the floor before he left.

————

When they got their picture in the paper, despite what Spot claimed, he wasn’t looking for himself, he was looking for Race. Photographs weren’t something that he could justify spending money on but a picture of Race for the price of a paper? That’s something he could justify and if he kept a copy in a box under his bed, then that wasn’t anyone’s business.

————

The first selling day after the strike came as a relief to every newsie; they welcomed the satisfying sound of coins in their pocket after so many days of making nothing. As the Brooklyn newsies lounged around after selling, they quickly fell back into their old routines. Spot had settled on his throne, Jesse perched on his lap as he read, occasionally asking Spot about a word. In the corner, a poker game had started with one noticeable change. No single newsie was constantly winning. He knew Race was at Sheepshead today, Stitch had mentioned that he was thankful they had until the next evening to return any unsold papers, otherwise he would have to sell in Manhattan so he could return any unsold papers before the gates closed. Just as Spot was beginning to assume Race had gone straight back to Manhattan, the door burst open.

“Spot Conlon, ya dramatic bastard!” Race yelled as he entered, cackles of laughter breaking out at his dramatics.

Spot raised his eyebrow.

“Ya talkin’ ‘bout somethin’ or just in general?” He deadpanned, his mouth twitching into a smile.

“‘M talkin’ ‘bout how ya got Governor Roosevelt ta take ya back ta Brooklyn in ‘is carriage.”

“Oh that?” Spot smirked. “He’s a real nice fella, we stopped at this fancy restaurant on the way.”

Race’s jaw dropped, the rest of the room following. The shock silence drew on then shattered into yells of disbelief. Spot lent back in his throne as Jesse jumped off, spinning around a chattering excitedly.

“What ya eat?”

The room froze, waiting for his answer.

“Filet de boeuf à la gelèe.” He looked around at the confused faces. “It’s real fancy beef.”

A flurry of excited comments followed his explanation.

“Don’t ya forget ‘bout us now yous friends with the Governor,” Race quipped, grinning cheekily.

Spot laughed as he stood. Sometime after Jesse’s question, he had vanished so Spot had no other responsibilities for the night.

“I ain’t able ta, yous would run wild without me.” Spot gestured his head toward his room in a silent question, to which Race nodded and followed.

————

The moment Race entered Spot room, his energy vanished, as if he had been running on adrenaline that had just run out. Spot laughed at the way Race instantly flopped onto his bed, waving a hand out to grab his hand and pull him down beside him. Within seconds, Spot was on his back with Race curled up beside him, his head resting on his shoulder and an arm over his chest to hold him close.

“Ya ok?”

Race nodded slightly but he didn’t let go.

“Ya ain’t usually quiet, Racer. Ya sure I ain’t gotta be worried?”

“‘M tired.”

“Ya ain’t been sleeping right?” Spot began to run his fingers through Race’s hair, relishing the way Race sighed contently.

“Often don’t. Don’t usually matter but this week ain’t been easy,” Race mumbled, his voice slightly slurred as his eyes began to slip closed.

“I’ll wake ya when ya gotta get back to ‘Hattan,” Spot reassured, smiling at the way Race stopped trying to keep his eyes open.

Race was asleep in seconds.

————

Bernard and Ed both aged out in the final few weeks of summer. Race saw Ed occasionally when he went to poker games around Brooklyn but he barely saw Bernard, only catching one glance of him when he walked back from Sheepshead after selling. They both got jobs in factories in Brooklyn but they didn’t visit the lodging house; most of their close friends had aged out earlier.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In case you didn’t work it out, the chapter where they attack Queens was added to address the gap between Spot in my story and Spot in canon, Spot’s close connection with Race meant I needed a good reason for Spot to not protect him.
> 
> Thank you for reading and I’d love to hear what you think!


	10. Autumn 1899

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> When a dangerous secret mixes with a misunderstanding, everything crumbles.
> 
> Or everything goes to shit... oops

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is a heavy chapter so please be careful.  
> TW: Eating Disorder (or at least that’s the best way to describe it), Insomnia, unsafe binding, self-harm (I think this is the best way to describe it), internalised transphobia (worse than usual)

Race hadn’t seen Spot in a week and he was not happy about it. Between a new Manhattan little, the Delancey Brothers’ anger over the result of the strike, and Jack constantly busy during the evening, Race was being spread thinner and thinner. He would hop straight on the train after selling and head straight across the bridge when he got off. When he wasn’t teaching the littles to add, he was breaking up a fight or starting one; the Delancey Brothers backed off once Race had confronted them, apparently tired and short-tempered Race would soak two far older and stronger kids without a second thought. Eventually Race snapped.

“Kelly!” He hauled Jack inside the lodging house by his necktie, storming up to the penthouse with a confused and slightly intimidated boy behind him. Spinning on his heel, he continued angrily. “Care ya explain why ya ain’t doin’ ya job anymore?”

“‘M sorry I ain’t been ‘round as much, I’ve been real busy at the theatre.”

“Bullshit!” Race had passed the theatre on the way back from confronting the Delancey Brothers and he had asked for Jack but Medda hadn’t seen him all week.

“Ya need ta stop hangin’ ‘round Spot so much.” Jack quipped but Race only scowled.

“Ya know, if that was ya plan then it’s workin’,” he snapped. “I ain’t had any time in Brooklyn all week because ya keep havin’ betta’ places ta be instead. So lemme make somethin’ clear. Tomorrow I am goin’ ta Brooklyn, might even stay the night, and even if ya tell me tomorrow that ya gonna be late, ‘m gonna go anyway.”

Jack stared at Race, frozen in place. He took a deep breath.

“Ok, I’ll be ‘ere ta look after the others.” He paused. “‘M sorry I ain’t been doin’ my job.”

“Where ‘ave ya really been?” Race asked, significantly more calmly than before.

Jack sighed, dropping to a sitting position and patting the floor next to him. Race obeyed, settling beside Jack as they stared out towards Brooklyn.

“I want ta tell ya, Race, but ya might hate me fa it.”

He didn’t look at Race as he spoke so Race didn’t pressurise him, instead he focused on Brooklyn as he spoke.

“Did ya kill someone?”

“What? No!” Jack snapped his head towards Race, who turned to face him.

“Then I ain’t gonna hate ya. Ya my brudda’.”

Jack took a deep breath, dropping his head back against the wall as he spoke.

“I don’t like girls. I know I kissed Sarah, and she’s real pretty, but I don’t like ‘er like I should like ‘er.”

“Ya like fellas?” Jack nodded slowly, fearfully looking over toward Race. Race threw an arm over Jack’s shoulder, tugging him into a hug. “Ya ain’t the only one Jackie. I ain’t ever liked a girl and I ain’t ever gonna. So who’s the lucky fella?”

“He ain’t my fella, ain’t ever gonna be. But it’s Davey.”

“Shoulda know ya liked ‘im, ya talk ‘bout ‘im like he’s some kinda angel.”

Jack sighed dramatically.

“He is ta me.”

Race groaned as Jack began to ramble on about Davey.

————

“He lives!” Pitch yelled as Race entered the Brooklyn lodging house the next day.

Race joined in as the room burst out laughing.

“Ya wanna join?” Arthur gestured to the deck of cards on the table in front of him.

“I gotta talk ta Spot first but if it ain’t too late, I’ll join after.”

With a nod from Arthur, Race headed for Spot’s room.

“Come in,” Spot’s voice sounded through the door as Race knocked.

Race hadn’t even had time to shut the door behind him when Spot barrelled into him, the door slamming shut as he pressed him up against it. With a hand on each cheek, Spot drew Race down into a kiss, frantic and somehow saying everything for them. Breaking away for air, their foreheads still resting against each other, Spot whispered to Race.

“I missed ya.”

“Missed ya too, Spottie.” Race lent down to kiss Spot again, his hand curling around Spot’s waist, curling his fingers around the rough fabric. “But if ya want me ta stay, I can. I ain’t needed in ‘Hattan ‘til tomorrow.”

“For real?” Spot beamed at Race’s nod, tugging him further into the room and pushing him down onto the bed.

Spot following him down, kissing his deeply. He gasped as Spot nipped at his lip, tugging at Spot’s shirt. When he rested his hands back down, the shirt was untucked, Spot’s smooth skin warm under his fingers. Spot laughed under his lips, breaking back ever so slightly.

“Ya fingers are cold,” he mumbled, his lips brushing over Race’s as he spoke.

Race just laughed at his tone as Spot lent in before he could think of a reply. Fingers curled through his hair and he hummed at the sensation. He let his hand brush along his back, never straying far. He brushed over a new part of his back and Spot giggled, nipping playfully at Race’s lip in response. Spot shifted above him and his hand slipped slightly, brushing further up Spot’s back. His fingertips brushed against something and he froze.

It felt like bandages.

Pulling back slightly, he withdrew his hand. Spot was motionless. He stared down at Race with terror in his eyes. Cautiously reaching out, he cupped Spot’s cheek. The movement shattered Spot’s trance and he scrambled backwards, staring Race down with an icy glare.

“Ya betta not tell anyone.” Spot snapped, his whole body tense as he stared Race down.

“Why didn’t ya tell me yous was-”

“Broken?” Spot snarled.

“That ain’t what I was gonna say.” Race snapped back, too tired to put up with Spot cutting him off.

“Then what was ya gonna say?”

“I was gonna ask ya what’s wrong with ya?”

Whatever the correct response to Spot’s question was, it definitely wasn’t what Race said. Spot’s expression went blank.

“Get out.”

“What?”

“Get outta Brooklyn now!” Spot snarled, his face red with anger. “Ya come back to Brooklyn or ya tell anyone ‘bout this and I’ll throw ya off the bridge.” Spot stormed forwards as he spoke, snarling in Race’s face.

The reality set in for Race. He was losing Spot and Sheepshead and his poker games around Brooklyn and every friendship he had with a Brooklyn newsies, all because he dared to point out that Spot was hurt.

“Ya a right bastard, Conlon,” he spat, storming past him.

He slammed the door to the main room open, not caring to stop it from crashing into the wall. No one stopped him as he stormed out the lodging house and onto the Brooklyn streets.

————

Spot crumbled to the floor, shaking as he fumbled to tuck his shirt back in. Tears began to fall until he was sobbing, gasping for breath as wished he could go back and redo the last hour. That he had told Race properly instead of letting him find out in the worst possible way. Or that he had just told him straight out because now Race didn’t just think he was a freak, he was a freak who had lied to him for months.

He didn’t move for hours.

When Mrs Kirby knocked on his door, he forced himself into bed, turning away from the door. The door opened.

“Sleep well, my dear.”

The door shut.

He didn’t sleep.

————

“Race? I thought ya said yous was stayin’ in Brooklyn tonight?”

He didn’t answer Jack as he tossed off his shoes and curled up in his bunk.

“Race?”

He didn’t answer.

“Racetrack we need ta talk, let’s go up ta the penthouse.”

He didn’t answer.

Safely hidden under his blanket, he let himself cry, muffling the sobs with his blanket.

————

When he woke up, Jack was slumped against the wall beside his bunk. He smiled slightly at the older boy. When Jack finally woke, he perched himself on the bunk next to Race.

“Ya wanna talk?” He whispered; most of the room was still asleep.

Race shook his head but let himself be pulled into a hug.

————

Race began to sell with a different little each day, there were no good selling spots available and Race simply wasn’t focused enough to sell all his papers without a little to help him. The littles were hardly complaining about spending time with Race, even if he wasn’t his usual self.

————

Even if Race hadn’t stormed through the main room of the lodging house and Spot hadn’t declared that Race wasn’t allowed anywhere in Brooklyn, the Brooklyn newsies would have known something was wrong.

Spot’s mood soured overnight.

He wasn’t cruel to any of them, Spot would never be cruel to a Brooklyn newsie, but his temper shortened and he stopped smiling, not even showing the slightest flicker of a smile.

————

Race smoked any type of cigarette or cigar he could get his hands on except one. His prize cigar. No matter how much he carried it around with him, he never smoked it. Snipeshooter noticed the change first, by the time he reached over to snatch the cigar from Race, both Race and the cigar were gone.

————

Jack sent the rest of the lodging house to breakfast and set out to find Race alone, with a promise that he would let them look after breakfast if he didn’t find him. The first place he headed was the Brooklyn bridge. He didn’t think Race would be stupid enough to cross but if he was missing Brooklyn, the closest he could go was the bridge.

As he approached, he spotted a short figure leaning on the railing, a cigar hanging from his mouth as he gazed out over the water. Race didn’t react when Jack settled beside him.

“Yous up early.”

He didn’t answer.

Jack dropped at arm over his shoulders, drawing him into his side. Race stubbed the cigar on the side of the bridge, watching the final twist of the smoke drift away. Jack watched as he examined the cigar he held, pocketed it, then looked up at Jack. Beneath the shine of tears, his stared blankly.

“Come on, yous gonna miss distribution.” Race let himself be guided away from the bridge. “‘Ow ‘bout I put ya with Les today, he ain’t gonna be ‘ere past next week.”

Davey and Les were finally heading back to school with the compromise that Les got to sell with any newsies he wanted for this week. Most importantly, Davey was selling with Jack and where Les went, Davey followed at a safe distance, so Jack would be able to keep an eye on Race.

“Jack?” Race mumbled.

“What?”

“‘M sorry fa makin’ ya miss breakfast.”

“Don’t ya worry ‘bout it, but next time, why don’t ya come up ta the penthouse instead?”

“I was up real early.”

“I don’t mind that, Race, and Crutchie ain’t been sleepin’ up there ‘cause his leg ain’t right.”

The next morning, Jack awoke today see Race perched on the edge of the rooftop, the wind flicking the smoke away from Jack. He didn’t speak.

————

No one commented when his knuckles began to bleed.

When Stitch first saw them, he wondered when the fight had happened. By the next morning, they were worse. The night after, there was always four newsies awake, two watching Spot’s window from the alleyway, and two checking that he didn’t leave through the main room. No one saw anything but his knuckles were in a worse state the next morning.

————

“Hey! Get outta ‘ere.” Five days after Spot banned Race from Brooklyn, he awoke to the sound of Blink yelling.

He’d been awake for hours by the time he drifted off to sleep, just an hour or two before the bell.

“We ain’t leavin’ ‘til we talk ta ‘im.” Race sat up at the sound of Stitch’s voice.

The door opened to reveal Stitch, Fancy, Pitch, and Arthur with Blink and Mush staring helplessly at the Brooklyn boys. Nearly every newsie was awake by this point but none of them spoke as the four Brooklyn boys marched across the room.

“I ain’t done nothin’ that Spot told me not ta do so why are yous ‘ere?” Race didn’t scowl at the group; he doesn’t forget friendships as quickly as Spot.

“We ain’t ‘ere ta soak ya, Race. We’s ‘ere ta find out what ‘appened,” Stitch said as he settled on the edge of Race’s bunk.

“Ask ‘im.”

Pitch snorted from his position beside Arthur, the two of them were leant against the bunk beside Race’s bunk.

“Why didn’t we think of that before we got up real early and walked ta ‘Hattan?” Arthur slapped him over the back of his head as Fancy spoke up from his perch next to Race’s pillow.

“Why ain’t ya tellin’ us?”

“‘Cause I don’t wanna be thrown of the Brooklyn Bridge.”

The whole room froze.

“He threatened ta throw ya off the bridge?” Jack growled. “Imma soak that brat.”

“Don’t ya dare, Jack,” Race snapped, relief flooding him when Jack backed down; Spot might be a bastard who hated his guts but there was no way Race was gonna let Jack hurt him.

The door creaked open slightly and a tiny figure slipped inside, glancing around nervously.

“Race?” He whispered, barely audible even in the silent room.

“Jesse?” Jesse darted across the room, leaping onto Race’s lap and wrapping his arms around his neck.

“What are ya doin’ ‘ere?” Stitch exclaimed.

“Heard yous were visitin’ Race.” Jesse glanced over his shoulder, twisting to look at Stitch without letting go of Race.

“So ya followed without askin’?”

“Ya woulda said no.” Race burst out laughing only recovering when Jesse continued. “Why did Spot make ya leave?”

“I ain’t able ta tell ya.” Race said regretfully, doing his best to ignore Jesse’s wide eyes.

“When are ya comin’ back?”

The question hung in the air like fog.

“Spot’s real mad at me, Jesse. I don’t think ‘im ever comin’ back.”

Jesse burst into floods of tears, Race holding him close as he tried to calm the sobbing little.

No one commented when Race’s eyes filled with tears.

————

No one commented when Spot began to get thinner.

He knew it was happening but he couldn’t bring himself to care. He simply handed his food away to some other newsie, it all tasted like sawdust to him. He would leave dinner first every day and return to his room. The one wall that had exposed brick had blood stains on it but he couldn’t bring himself to fetch water to clean it off so he left it there.

He had nothing to do so he curled up on the floor and let himself drift. Once he had sent the rest of the boys to sleep, he would unwrap his chest and return to the floor with only his blanket over him. Only boys can sleep in a bed in the lodging house.

————

“What ‘appened, Race?” Jack asked as he knelt in front of Race, accepting the cloth Crutchie handed him.

“I beat a fella at poker.” Race winced underneath Jack as he began to dab at the ripped skin on his forehead.

“Ya said the last time.”

“And the time before.”

Mush then Blink commented from either side of Race. Each of them had an arm over Race’s shoulders, although Jack knew it was only half to comfort Race, who looked to be one wrong move from fleeing from the lodging house.

“They don’t like me winnin’.”

“A few weeks ago, ya said that ya get on with all the groups ya play with in ‘Hattan.”

Race dropped his head at Crutchie’s words.

“Race, ‘ave ya been lookin’ fa fights?” Jack fought to keep the disappointment out of his voice but Race still shrunk back, nodding slowly.

————

Spot knew rumours were flying through the boroughs. They whispered about how Race had been banished from Brooklyn. That Spot was out for blood. That Race had done something awful but no one knew what. Some guessed he had cheated in poker, others guessed that he had kissed a sister that Spot had but kept secret for her own safety. Some even claimed he had tried to steal the throne.

Spot listened to the rumours but he didn’t respond to them. He didn’t care what people thought as long as none of them knew the truth.

————

Race’s head had been spinning all day. His papers sold like wildfire despite him barely moving, often with a generous tip. He sold his last ten papers in one go, a kind looking old lady had bought them all, as Race tipped his hat and left, he could have sworn she told him to do something. To go home? He didn’t fully remember but he headed towards the lodging house anyway. A familiar voice drifted through the crowd, growing nearer despite him not deliberately heading towards it.

He tried to leap back as two hands gripped his shoulder but they held firm as he struggled.

“Race!”

He paused, staring at the figure in front of him, desperately trying to place the voice or the face as his vision swam.

“Race, it’s me, Jack.”

He nodded slowly as the two hands moved up to grip either side of his face.

“Ya ain’t lookin’ so hot.”

He went to nod but his knees buckled and everything went black.

————

Jack caught Race by the shoulders as he collapsed.

“Davey!”

“What ‘appened?” Davey appeared by his shoulder, Les just behind him.

“I ain’t sure but he was sellin’ with Splinter today. I gotta get ‘im back ta the lodging house so could ya go find Splinter?”

“Sure. Les, you betta’ come with me.”

As the two brothers vanished, Jack lifted Race up and took off at a run. It was only once Jack settled him in his bunk and had sent Blink off with a few coins to buy a bottle of soda water and something for Race to eat, did Jack finally relax. He slumped down next to Race’s bunk and waited.

————

Race jerked awake, bolting into a sitting position. He looked around him for a moment then buried his head in his hands. Jack settled beside him, rubbing his back as struggled to calm his breathing.

“Jack?”

Race lent back, tucking himself into Jack’s side.

“Ya feelin’ any betta’?”

Race nodded slightly, looking around the deserted room.

“Theys at dinner.”

“All of ‘em?”

Jack nodded, watching as Race took deep breath.

“Can I tell ya somethin’?”

“‘Course.”

Race paused but Jack didn’t rush him.

“Ya know I said I like fellas.”

Oh.

“Ya liked Spot.” Silent tears began to roll down Race’s cheeks. “He kicked ya out when ya told him?”

“No, we ‘ave been datin’ since spring but no one knows.”

“Ya doin’ well ta hide somethin’ fa so long.”

Race bit on his lower lip as the tears began to flow faster.

“I liked ‘im, Jackie. Proper liked ‘im and now he ‘ates me. I ain’t even sure what I did.”

“‘Ow ‘bout ya tell me?” Race opened his mouth to protest. “I know what he said but I ain’t gonna let ‘im. I ain’t able ta do nothin’ if ya don’t tell me somethin’.”

“We’s was kissin’,” Jack sent a silent prayer to anyone listening that he would still be able to look Spot in the eye after this. “And my hand is under ‘is shirt. I felt bandages and I thought he was ‘urt and I asked ‘im ‘bout it and he got real angry. Told me ta leave.”

Jack furrowed his brow.

“That’s it? Ya found out he was ‘urt and he kicked ya out?”

“That’s it,” Race mumbled into Jack’s shirt, his eyes beginning to drift shut.

“I ain’t sure why he’s upset but it ain’t ‘cause he’s ‘urt. I’ll think on it, see I know somethin’ ya don’t.” He reached over to grab the pie and the bottle of soda water from the table beside him. “Ya can sleep soon but first ya gotta eat.”

Race didn’t complain. Once he had finished most of the pie and all of the soda water, Jack let him sleep.

————

Mrs Kirby cursed herself when she noticed Spot growing thinner. Judging by what the boys told her, she had caught his sudden change in mood almost instantly but, in her effort to do as much of his job for him as she could, she failed to notice when he stopped eating.

When she knocked on his door, almost two weeks after his mood had changed, she got no response. Gently opening the door, she sighed at the sight. Spot lay curled away from her on the rough wooden floor, shivering despite the blanket over him. He didn’t react when she placed the dinner she had saved for him on his desk.

“Spot?”

“Mrs Kirby?” He shot upright at her voice, swaying where he sat.

She held out her hand, helping the boy up with worrying ease. She didn’t comment when he shook his head at the bed, letting him sit at his desk and placing the plate in front of him.

“My dear, you need to eat.”

He stared at the plate then began to eat almost mechanically.

He refused to tell her what had happened but he didn’t object when Mrs Kirby reminded him that both breakfast and dinner are compulsory.

————

When the two week mark hit, Jack snapped. After he finished selling for the day, he set off for Brooklyn.

No one stopped him as he made his way through the Brooklyn streets, even though he was the leader of another borough and clearly out for blood, and when he arrived at the lodging house, the door opened before he could knock. As he made his way into the main room, he locked eyes with Spot.

Jack had know Spot for years but he had never seen him look so gaunt. If Jack didn’t know otherwise, he would have said he was sick. The throne dwarfed him and for the first time, Jack didn’t believe he was looking at the King of Brooklyn.

“Conlon.” He didn’t yell.

“Kelly.”

They stared each other down.

“Care ta explain.”

“So he didn’t tell ya.”

“He told me ya threatened ta throw ‘im off the bridge if he told.”

“That all?” There was a glimmer of something in Spot’s tone that Jack couldn’t identify but it didn’t sound dissimilar from hope.

Jack shook his head.

“Can we talk where I ain’t got guard dogs breathin’ down my neck?” It was a question but not one with two acceptable answers.

“Follow me.”

Spot rose, leading the way towards the back of the room. When they finally arrived, Jack realised that the only room he could possibly be in was Spot’s bedroom. Papers covered the desk and the blanket was on the floor but otherwise the room was tidy, although Jack suspected that most objects were only in the right place as Spot hadn’t had a reason to use them.

Spot settled on the desk chair, gesturing for Jack to sit on the bed. As he obeyed, a flash of red caught his eye and he turned, his eyes widening at the blood dripping down the brickwork.

“It ain’t Racetrack’s blood.”

As horrific as having blood on a wall was, Jack simply grimaced and turned back to Spot.

“What ‘appened?”

“What did he tell ya?” Spot countered.

“He told me yous weren’t just friends.” Jack knew Spot was watching every movement he made. “I ain’t gotta problem with it. Woulda preferred Race ta choose someone else but it ain’t my choice.”

“What else?”

“Nothin’ else.”

“Ya lyin’, Kelly.” Spot snarled. “Spit it out!”

“He told me ya ‘urt. That he found out and that’s why ya kicked ‘im outta Brooklyn.”

Spot stared at him.

“He thinks ‘im ‘urt?”

“Ya got bandages ‘round ya back, what else would it be?”

“They ain’t bandages.” Jack when to speak. “What they are ain’t any of ya business.” He snapped as he stood. “‘M goin’ ta talk ta Race.”

Jack didn’t object as Spot stalked out of the room, leaving him to follow behind.

“Stitch, Fancy, Flare, we’s goin’ ta ‘Hattan. Nickel, Dime, yous in charge ‘til I get back.”

A pair of twins nodded at Spot from across the room as three newsies approached Spot.

“Hold up. I didn’t object ta you talkin’ ta Race, I do object ta yous all enterin’ ‘Hattan.”

“So ya sayin’ I should walk into a lodging house full of newsies who are outta soak me, alone?” Spot scoffed and headed for the door, the trio following him.

Jack scowled but said nothing.

————

“Easy fellas, let ‘im through.”

The crowd of newsies parted but a kid stepped into the gap. He scowled at Spot, leaning heavily on his crutch.

“What’s he doin’ ‘ere, Jack?” He snapped, not taking his eyes off Spot.

“Easy Crutchie, he’s ‘ere ta talk ta Race.”

Crutchie stared Spot down and then stepped back to let him enter the main room of the lodging house.

For the first time in two weeks, Spot made eye contact with Race and the sight almost broke him. He hadn’t been sleeping, the deep purple bags under his eyes made that obvious, and his carefree smirk was nowhere to be seen.

They stared at each other but for all he looked, Spot couldn’t see disgust in Race’s eyes. Hurt? Definitely. But there was no disgust.

“We need ta talk.”

“I ain’t broken ya rules.”

“I know. I gotta explain somethin’.” The curious stares of the Manhattan newsies scorched his back. “But it ain’t fa the whole of ‘Hattan ta know.”

“Jack, can we talk in ya penthouse?”

“I ain’t leavin’ yous ‘lone ‘til I know Conlon ain’t gonna push ya off the edge.”

Race’s lack of an objection cut Spot to his core. He had scared the fearless kid because of a misunderstanding and a secret and he hated himself for it, no matter how necessary it had seemed at the time.

“Ya ain’t Brooklyn, Kelly. I ain’t sayin’ nothin’ with ya there.”

“I ain’t backin’ down on this one, Conlon.”

“I ain’t either.”

Spot glared at Jack, who glared back, neither stepping back. A few mumbled voices drifted out from the corner of the room then a newsies spoke up.

“What if someone else goes ‘stead of Jack?”

Spot didn’t have to think before he gave his answer.

“If they ain’t Brooklyn, they ain’t gonna be there.”

Davey stepped forwards, holding out two little balls of newspaper.

“What if Jack can see what yous doin’ but he can’t ‘ear?”

“Ya want me ta stuff papes in my ears.” Jack scoffed but Davey continued to push.

“Used ta do it when I was doin’ ‘omework. It don’t fully work but if yous whisper, he ain’t gonna be able ta ‘ear nothin’.”

Jack sighed, taking the balls of newspaper and gesturing for the group to follow him as he headed for the back of the room. With a tap on Flare’s shoulder, Spot gestured for her to follow and they made their way up to the rooftop.

Jack settled against the wall with Flare next to him and stuck the newspapers in his ears.

“Least he ain’t talkin’,” Spot quipped. When Jack didn’t react, he nodded approvingly and turned towards Race. “‘M sorry.”

“Ya said ya wanted ta explain.”

Spot worried his lower lip between his teeth, took a deep breath, and spoke.

“I shoulda told ya ages ago, before we started ta date. I was born a girl.”

“So why do ya say dress like a boy?”

“Ya know ya a boy, right?” Race nodded slowly, tilting his head in confusion. “Well I know I ain’t a girl just like ya know ya ain’t a girl.”

Spot stepped back, running his hand though his hair in frustration as he fought to find the right words.

“But I like ya Spot.”

“I know I shoulda told ya, I shouldn’t ‘ave lied ta ya and-”

“No,” Race cut him off. “That ain’t what I mean. Yous a boy, right? Even though ya ain’t born one.”

“Yes.”

“I like boys, Spot. I ain’t ever liked a girl but I like ya so I ain’t sure it matters what yous born as.”

“Ya sure?” Spot could hear the hope in his voice.

“‘M sure.” He paused. “I still ain’t sure ‘ow this ‘as anythin’ ta do with ya bein’ ‘urt.”

“I ain’t ‘urt. I gotta chest.”

“Oh.” Spot laughed lightly at Race’s realisation. “So ya bandage it?”

“They ain’t bandages, theys just fabric, but yes.”

“Ya thought I would tell the rest of Brooklyn.”

Spot nodded, forcing himself to look Race in the eye as he spoke.

“‘M sorry fa kickin’ ya out, Race, and fa threatenin’ ya.”

“Ya ain’t the only one ta blame. Ya were scared and I didn’t make my question clear. ‘M sorry fa scarin’ ya, Spottie.”

“Racer.” Spot whispered. “Can we try again? Ta make us work, I mean.”

Race beamed and Spot felt like the luckiest man alive to have another chance to see that wide, unrestrained smile. He stepped forwards and reached up, cupping each cheek, as Race leant down and kissed him. Hands curled into his hair, holding him close as the darkness protected them from the outside world.

Spot broke back, running his thumb along Race’s cheek.

“I’ve missed ya.” Spot whispered. “I wanted ta fix it but I thought ya ‘ated me.”

“I couldn’t. I wanted to when I thought ya were just bein’ proud but I couldn’t ‘ate ya.”

Spot smiled, wrapping one arm around Race’s waist as he drew him down for a kiss, relishing in the feeling of Race being there, of holding him close and letting the world slip away. When Race broke back, a voice cut through the rooftop.

“Well it looks like yous all made up but I ain’t sittin’ out ‘ere whilst ya kiss so break it up.” Spot scowled at Jack, laughing at the way Flare swatted at Jack.

“Why do I put up with ya, Jackie?” Race groaned, dropping his forehead onto Spot’s shoulder, who reached up and ran his fingers through Race’s short curls.

“Hey! I got yous talkin’ again, ‘ave some respect.”

Spot rolled his eyes at Jack.

————

Stitch and Fancy lent against either side of the door, waiting for Spot to return and trying to ignore the glares they were receiving.

“Hey Brooklyn?”

“Which one?” Stitch countered, glancing up at the newsies who spoke.

“It don’t matta’. What’s Race ta Spot?”

“What ya talkin’ ‘bout?”

The newsie dropped from the bunk and Fancy recognised him as the kid who had collected Race on the morning after Tower had soaked him. Race had mentioned his name was Mush and that the other who came with him was called Blink. Blink dropped from the bunk just after Mush and the two stalked across the room to face Stitch and Fancy.

“We want ta know why Spot lets Race sell in Brooklyn but he don’t gotta pay anymore.”

“Brooklyn newsies don’t gotta pay ta sell in Brooklyn.” Fancy pointed out, trying not to anger Race’s friends.

“He ain’t Brooklyn.” Blink fired back.

“He’s as much Brooklyn as he’s ‘Hattan.”

“No he ain’t.” Mush snapped.

“Yes he is.”

The room fell silent as Spot spoke, only Race remained unaffected by his sharp tone.

“Easy boys, there enough of me ta go ‘round,” Race quipped, tossing one arm over Spot’s shoulders and the other over Mush’s shoulders, grinning wildly at the two of them.

“Ya fuckin’ sap, Race.” Spot teased, shoving at Race who gasped dramatically.

“Don’t ya be rude in front of the littles.” He scolded, a smile catching at the edge of his lips as he faked disapproval.

“Ok!” A newsie leapt off the bed, skipping across the room and flipping a board to reveal a blackboard, gesturing to a label reading ‘lover’s fight’. “Everyone owes Crutchie a nickel!” He yelled, a chorus of grumbling ringing out as they began to fish through their pockets.

————

Spot glanced over at Race who was white as a sheet.

“‘Ow did they know?” His voice wavered as he stared at the board.

“I ain’t sure but theys seem ok with it. If they ain’t, ya got Brooklyn.”

Race nodded mutely, a small smile on his face.

————

“Hold up!” A newsie yelled over the noise. “They ain’t said nothin’ ‘bout datin’.”

Cackles of laughter bust through the room.

“Ya got eyes, Skittery? He’s been mopin’ fa two weeks then Spot shows up and he’s all grins again?”

“That don’t mean nothin’!”

“Fine.” The newsie spun towards Race. “Are yous datin’?”

No one moved.

“Yes.”

The room erupted.

“Damn it, Race!” “Yous datin’ the King of Brooklyn?” “Ya kiddin’!” All rung through the mess of whistles and cheers as relief swept onto Race’s face.

“Yous all ok with it?” Nods spread across the room as Jack grumbled. “Jackie?”

“I still ain’t able ta believe that of every newsie in Brooklyn and ‘Hattan, ya chose ‘im.”

“What’s wrong with ‘im?” Race snapped back, his hackles raised.

“He’s Brooklyn, every kid in New York is scared of ‘im, oh, and he carries a cane. That ain’t enough of a reason fa you?”

Spot unhooked his cane, spinning it between his fingers with a smirk.

“Ya jealous, Kelly?”

Jack just rolled his eyes, gesturing to the door.

“Get outta ‘ere, Conlon.” As the Brooklyn newsies began to make their way towards the door, a hand reached out and grabbed Race by the collar. “Not a chance, Higgins.”

“Come on! I ain’t visited ‘em in weeks.”

“I ain’t lettin’ ya walk the bridge ‘til you’ve gotta a whole week of rest and ya still ‘ave five days ta go.”

“Why the enforced rest? A week’s an awful long time fa a few bags under his eyes.” Stitch piped up.

“Listen ta ‘im, Jack, he’s Brooklyn’s doctor.”

“Ya collapsed, Race.” Jack deadpanned.

“Race,” Spot spoke up, guilt covering his features. “Ya shouldn’t try ta walk the bridge before ya ready.”

“‘M fine!”

“No.” Both Jack and Spot declared, glaring at each other when they realised they had both spoken.

Race grabbed Spot’s hand, pulling him to the side.

————

“Please Spot, I ain’t been sleepin’ right and I don’t wanna wake up thinkin’ I dreamt this.” Race whispered frantically.

Spot stared up at Race’s desperate expression, frantically trying to think of ways he could help the distressed boy.

“What if I stay in ‘Hattan tonight?”

“Fa real?”

“Brooklyn can hand itself fa a night.”

Race crushed Spot into a hug, Spot simply hugging back as he ignored the ‘awww’ from around them.

As Race broke back, he spun to face Jack, speaking as a normal volume.

“Can Spottie stay the night?”

“Will it stop ya from crossin’ the bridge fa the next five days?” Race nodded frantically. “Then sure, Spottie can stay.”

“Jack Kelly, ya call me that again and I’ll soak ya ‘til ya can’t talk.” Spot growled, the room freezing around him.

He smirked, sometimes Manhattan needed to remember who he was.

Glancing back at Race, he smiled at the way he cracked up at Jack’s expression.

“We’ll ‘ead back ta Brooklyn then?” Flare asked, gesturing to the other two Brooklyn boys.

Spot nodded and, with a few quick goodbyes, they were gone, leaving Spot feeling incredibly out of place.

“Anyone up fa poker?”

Spot’s mouth twitched into a smile as Race pulled him across the room to sit on a bunk. Within seconds, a group had formed and set up a table between the two bunks. Spot settled with one arm over Race’s shoulder, quite content to watch the game instead of playing.

————

Not long before bedtime, a squeal of pain echoed through the room. Race leapt to his feet and darted across the room.

“Hey Splinter, what ‘appened?”

The little held up his finger and Race sighed, ruffling his hair.

“Crutchie?” He called across the room. “He’s gotta splinter.”

“Again?” Crutchie exclaimed as the two crossed the room. He examined his finger. “It ain’t too deep, shouldn’t be hard ta get out.”

“It still fuckin’ ‘urt!” Splinter exclaimed.

No one moved, then one by one, the room turned to face Spot.

“Oh come on, it ain’t bad.”

“Seriously?” Race looked up from where he held Splinter’s finger still, Crutchie desperately trying to remove it whilst Splinter was distracted. “Ya teach a little ta swear and it ain’t bad?”

“There ain’t a Brooklyn little who don’t know how ta swear by ‘is age.”

“That don’t make it ok.”

“Racer, yous the reason why Brooklyn knows what a Bowery Boy is.”

Race spluttered.

“And it’s out.” Crutchie piped up. “Ya embarrassment distracted ‘im like a charm.”

Race scowled, ruffling Splinter’s hair and stalking back to the game.

————

When Race jerked awake during the night, he didn’t bolt out of bed. He didn’t head for the penthouse to smoke or sneak out to walk through the silent streets. He stayed in the warm bed, tucked securely under Spot’s arm, his head resting on Spot’s chest. The gentle beat of Spot’s heart lulled him back to sleep.

————

When Race awoke, a hand was brushing through his hair. He hummed at the sensation, curling closer into Spot’s side.

“Mornin’ Racer.” Race grumbled in response; if the rest of the lodging house wasn’t awake, he didn’t want to be. “Ya still tired.”

“‘Course ‘m still tired, it’s too early ta be up.”

“It can’t be long ‘til ya gotta be up.” Race cracked a single eye open.

“If I ain’t gotta be up, I ain’t gonna be up.” Spot chuckled.

“Up ya get!” Race clamped his hand over his ear at Jack’s voice. “Let’s not make Kloppman ‘ave ta yell at us again.”

“Since when do ya care ‘bout that?” A voice mumbled from across the room.

“Since yesterday. He told me he’s gonna leave ya to miss breakfast from now on.”

“Why? He likes ta be clean. Always complain ta me ‘bout us not washing enough.”

“Ya pour water on him! ‘Course he ain’t ‘appy!” Jack scolded. “Ya want us ya start doin’ the same ta you?”

“It’d save our noses if ya did, Jack.” Another voice piped up and the room descended into chaos.

“Come on, Racer.” Spot whispered.

Race scowled but rolled out of bed.

————

Spot’s ribs ached in protest the whole day; he could hardly undo them in the middle of the Manhattan lodging house. Despite the pain, he couldn’t care less. He had spent a full night with Race in his arms and no amount of pain would make him regret that.

————

Race didn’t cause much fuss on the first day of his five days of rest. He sold in Manhattan and he only tried to sneak across the bridge once, at which point Jack appeared out of nowhere and dragged him back to the lodging house. Despite his failed escape attempt, Race remained bubbly for the whole day, nearly knocking Blink and Mush over when they presented him with a replacement for his prized cigar and orders not to ask any questions about how they obtained it.

On the second morning, things began to go downhill and by the third morning, the Manhattan boys were growing sick of his constant fidgeting. He was constantly counting down the seconds and his mood began to rapidly decrease. Eventually Jack sent a message to Brooklyn.

The note, which Mush and Blink delivered, simply read:

Spot,  
Race is getting annoying now. If you can spend the night in Manhattan, do so.  
Jack.

And so, once again leaving Nickel and Dime in charge, Spot set off for Manhattan.

————

“Ya came,” Jack commented as he appeared beside Spot. He didn’t bother stopping, letting Jack follow him if he wanted to continue the conversation. “Didn’t think ya would.”

“Why? ‘Cause yous the one askin’?

“Kinda.” Jack stopped. “We need ta talk.”

Spot sighed before stopping and facing the other leader.

“‘Ere?”

Jack nodded as he moved to lean against the wall of a shop.

“‘M worried ‘bout her.”

Spot instantly realised what Jack was doing; he wasn’t aware he had any sense in him so he was almost impressed.

“Why? She ‘urt?” Spot’s mind began to present every possible scenario and he hated all of them.

“She ain’t ‘urt anymore but ya ‘urt her real bad, Conlon.” Jack’s stony glare cut into him, affecting him like it never usually did; Spot had never agreed with Jack as he glared at him before.

“I know I did and-”

“That ain’t my point.” Spot scowled as Jack cut him off, but he held his tongue. “I know ya sorry and all that but what ‘appens next time? Ya gonna kick her out every time ya argue?”

“No.”

“What made this time different from the next then?”

“It ain’t ya business, Jack. All that ya need ta know is I explained what makes this time different and, now she knows, we ain’t gonna ‘ave this issue again.”

“Ya betta’ not-” Jack stepped forwards, towering over Spot as he growled out the words. “-‘Cause I might not ‘ave every kid in New York scared of me but that don’t mean I ain’t able ta soak ya ‘til she don’t recognise ya.”

Spot bit back the urge to laugh at Jack; even if he could beat Jack in a fight, Jack could force Race to stay in Manhattan and Spot was never letting Race be kept from Brooklyn again. Instead he looked up at Jack and nodded.

“I know ya would.”

————

The quiet of the lodging house was unexpected but not uncomfortable. Mush held a finger to his mouth as they entered.

“He was asleep when we got back, I ain’t sure he slept last night.”

“He ain’t sleepin’?” Spot furrowed his brow as he spoke; if Race still wasn’t sleeping, something would have to be done.

“He woke me up when he got up. He sat at the window fa a while, I ain’t sure ‘ow long, but he got back ta bed before ya came in ta wake us up.” He directed the last part at Jack, who frowned, worry flooding his features.

Spot dipped his head in acknowledgement before he made his way across the room. He paused, taking in the sight of Race for a moment. He lay curled towards Spot, his newspaper bag still over his shoulder and his hat tipped over his eye. Spot gently lift the hat away from his eye, placing it on the bedside table, and he settled down on the floor beside the bed to wait.

“Has Race eaten?” Jack whispered, the sound barely reaching Spot.

A few newsies shook their heads and Jack sighed.

“I could get ‘im somethin’?” A newsie quietly chimed in. “Les left some school work ‘ere early, I was gonna give it back ta ‘im ‘case he needs it.”

Jack nodded approvingly, whispering across the room to Spot.

“Ya can’t ‘ave gotten chance ta eat.”

Plucking a dollar from his pocket, Spot held it out to the newsies.

“Just get me whatever ya get Race, would ya?”

The newsie scurried across the room, his eyes widening at the sight of the dollar, and vanished, grabbing a book from the side as he left. Spot chuckled slightly; he didn’t have to worry about not getting change back, his reputation made sure of that, and casually handing over a dollar always made newsies respect him just a little more.

As the rest of the room quietly continued their own tasks, Spot let his eyes slip closed. He knew he wouldn’t accidentally fall asleep, he wasn’t tired enough for that to happen, but the lodging house had a calm atmosphere and, despite getting nearly all the sleep he needed, he felt far from well rested. He still hadn’t been able to bring himself to return to sleeping on his bed, the thought that a proper boy wouldn’t have to explain who he was still niggled at the back of his mind, and not eating for almost two weeks had taken a toll on him. He couldn’t say what had made everything taste of sawdust but now he talked to Race, he had begun to eat for himself rather than eating as to not worry Mrs Kirby.

“Ya think he’s awake?” A voice broke through his thoughts.

“I don’t think so.”

“I ain’t wakin’ ‘im, ya know what they say ‘bout the last newsie who dared ta wake ‘im?”

“No, what?”

“He hung ‘m from the top of the Brooklyn bridge.” Gasps broke out around him.

“Oh?” Spot snapped his eyes open, sending the group surrounding him leaping back in shock. “I thought I tied the last one ta the bottom of the docks.” He laughed at the petrified faces around him; he couldn't quite believe how easily they believe him. “Ya needed somethin’?”

No one moved. One newsie shoved another and he scurried forwards, holding out two rolls and a pile of change. He took them and the newsie shot backwards, fearfully watching for Spot’s reaction. Placing the second role on the table behind him, he flicked his hand, spreading the coins across his palm. He counted silently then dropped them into his pocket and began to unwrap the roll.

Race shifted, lifting his hand to his head then bolting upright, looking around the bed.

“It’s on ya table.” Spot commented.

Race whipped around, sighing in relief at the sight of his hat, before looking down towards Spot.

“Spottie? ‘Ow come yous in ‘Hattan?”

“Jack sent me a note, ‘pparently yous is annoyin’ ‘em so they want me ta spend the night in ‘Hattan.”

Race ducked his head.

“I ain’t been the easiest ta be ‘round. I want ta get back ta sellin’ in Brooklyn.” He paused, sniffing subtly. “Ya got food?”

“Why ain’t I surprised that why ya woke?” Spot laughed, tossing Race the roll from the table. “Ya friend got it fa you.”

Race looked up at the surrounding group, a few of them pointing toward the newsie who had bought the food.

“Thank ya, Dice.” Race beamed at Dice before turning on Spot. “Really Spottie?”

“What did I do?”

“Ya did somethin’ else they wouldn’t be lookin’ so scared of ya.” Spot laughed shortly under Race’s glared. “What did ya do?”

“Theys was trying ta decide if ta wake me or not but I wasn’t asleep. One of ‘em claimed I hung the last newsie ta wake me off the top of the Brooklyn bridge so I told ‘em that I thought tied the last one to the bottom of the Brooklyn docks.” A hand clipped him lightly across the back of his head as he laughed. “That ain’t nice, Racer.”

“Ya were enjoyin’ it too much.”

“Hey, I gotta ‘ave a little fun.”

Race just scoffed as he dropped his cigar and paper bag onto the table and shifted over patting the bed next to him. As Spot joined Race on the bed, the crowd dispersed. Race’s arm dropped over his shoulders and he let himself be drawn into the warmth of his side. As the warmth spread through him, he realised he had been shaking.

“You ok?” Race whispered as he opened his roll.

“‘M fine, just cold.” Spot began to eat the roll, relishing the flavours.

“Ya ain’t been eatin’, ‘ave ya?” Spot mutely shook his head. “Ya gotta eat, Spottie.”

“I ‘ave been recently.” Race fiddled with Spot hair as he worried at his lower lip. “I promise I am, Racer.”

They sat in silence, Race curling his fingers through the ends of Spot’s hair as he devoured the roll. Spot finished at a far more reasonable speed. When they had both finished, Spot spoke.

“Racer, Mush said ya ain’t sleepin’,” he said, his voice gentle as he broached the topic.

“Don’t use that voice,” Race whined. “Ya sound like Jack.”

“I’ll find another voice,” Spot quipped, earning a bold laugh and a beaming smile. “But fa real, if ya ain’t sleepin’ ya ain’t gonna be ok ta come ta Brooklyn.”

“Ya would ban me from Brooklyn ‘gain?” The hurt in Race’s eye cut deep as he rushed to clarify his words.

“No no no. I wouldn’t do that ta ya ‘gain.” He continued at a far more reasonable pace. “All ‘m sayin’ is, if ya don’t sleep, ya gonna collapse ‘gain. If ya collapse on the bridge, there ain’t gonna be anyone ta ‘elp ya.”

“Oh.”

“Why ain’t ya sleepin’?”

“I try ta.” Race protested.

“Then why ain’t ya?”

“I ain’t able ta.” He hesitated so Spot took the hand that wasn’t playing with his hair and squeezed it reassuringly. “I keep wonderin’ if Brooklyn’s alright, what yous ‘ave been doin’ since I left. If Jesse finally found ‘is sock and if Pitch ‘as won at poker yet. I don’t know, I miss yous I guess.” He paused. “‘M restless now I ain’t runnin’ the bridge each day so that ain’t helpin’.”

“Ya want me ta talk ta Jack, see if I ain’t able ta make ‘im let ya stay in Brooklyn fa a few nights. If ya don’t come back ta ‘Hattan every day then ya ain’t gonna be on the bridge ‘lone.”

Race nodded, a hopeful look in his eye. Pressing a kiss to his cheek, Spot headed off to find Jack.

————

By the time he returned, Race had been pulled into a card game that he didn’t recognise. Race glanced up, swatting at a boy who tried to sneak a glance at cards, before he beamed at Spot, patting the bed beside him. Race’s arm fell over his shoulders as he held up his cards for Spot to see.

“I ain’t sure if theys good ‘cause I ain’t sure what ya playin’.”

“Oh, a ‘Hattan boy made it up. He left years ago but that don’t mean we ain’t still playin’ it. I could talk ya through?” Race suggested.

“Racer, ya know I don’t play.”

“Right, scary image ta keep up.” Race rolled his eyes, dropping a card onto the table.

“Playin’ cards ain’t gonna lose my reputation, I just don’t like it much.” Spot laughed shortly as he continued teasingly. “Ya know ‘ow much richer ya would be if ya didn’t play?”

Race gasped, shoving at the laughing Spot.

“He ain’t wrong,” the newsie next to Race commented as he dropped a card on the table.

Race looked down and swore viciously, the group breaking out laughing.

“And ya told me off fa swearin’,” Spot deadpanned.

Race spun to face him with a look of exasperation.

“Ya taught me that one!”

“Ya didn’t ‘ave ta use it!”

“Break it up, lovebirds!” Jack yelled from across the room, laughter breaking out at his words.

“Did ya ask ‘im?”

“He said ya can stay fa up ta five days.” Race’s eyes widened then he tackled Spot into a hug, almost knocking him sideways as he barrelled into him.

————

As the game continued, Spot shifted until his head rested on Race’s shoulder, Race’s arm curling around him to absentmindedly play with his hair.

“Tired, Spot?”

Spot didn’t bother turning to face Jack.

“Jealous, Jack?”

Jack huffed in response.

“Off ta bed with the lotta yous.”

As the group began to pick themselves from the floor, Mush shook his head at Race.

“Racetrack Higgins, where are ya manners?” He scolded. “Ya supposed ta carry ya girl ta bed.”

Fear pierced through Spot as he shot forwards, slamming Mush into a nearby bunk. His thoughts screamed at him, every warning bell ringing wildly as his survival instincts kicked in.

“What the fuck did ya just call me?” He growled, glaring down the taller boy as he pressed against his neck.

An arm wrapped around his throat and yanked him backwards. He spun away, throwing a fist towards his attacker but yanking backwards before it hit. Race had shoved Jack out the way and stood precisely where his punch would have landed.

Race stepped forwards and pulled Spot away by his shoulders. Moving a hand to each cheek, he whispered to Spot.

“Breathe, he doesn’t know.”

“I know, I just wasn’t thinkin’ and now theys gonna work it out.”

“Just apologise and say somethin’ ‘bout ya father. They won’t push it.”

Spot heaved a shaky breathe, nodding to Race and stepping forwards. Jack instantly moved to block his path.

“I ain’t gonna do nothin’ ‘cept speak, Kelly. Mush, ‘m sorry if I ‘urt ya. That ain’t the first time someone’s said that ta me.”

“Explain.” Jack snapped.

“My father ‘ad some insults he liked ta use.” Spot snapped back, daring Jack to push further.

Jack backed down at his words and Mush spoke up.

“‘M sorry fa sayin’ what I called ya,” he said sincerely, spitting on his hand and holding it out.

Spot spat on his own hand and the two boys shook hands, leaving the incident in the past as they headed off to bed.

As Spot and Race prepared for bed, Spot found himself gripping the nearest surface to hide the way he shook, his body still readying itself for the fight that barely started. Out of the corner of his eye, he noticed the worried glances Race sent him.

Spot ended up in bed before Race, lying on his side as Race settled beside him, leaving space between them. As the lights were flicked off, Race shifted closer, slipping an arm over his side, tugging him closer. Realising his position, he tensed. Mush’s words echoed through his head. He tried to force himself to relax, reminding himself that the way he slept meant nothing. It didn’t matter that Race had him tucked against him like a guy would hold a girl. It didn’t matter how he slept. It didn’t matter that he was smaller. It didn’t matter. It didn’t matter. It didn’t matter.

Race lifted his arms away and pulled back, whispering.

“What’s wrong?”

He shook his head.

“Ya clearly ain’t ok with ‘ow I held ya.” His voice wasn’t accusing but it was full of worry.

“Sorry,” Spot mumbled but Race shook his head.

“Ya don’t gotta be,” he reassured. “Ya ok ta be touched at all?” At Spot’s confirmation, he continued. “‘Ow do ya want ta lie then?”

Spot worried at his lip as he thought.

“Could I ‘old ya?” He mumbled before frantically continuing. “If ya ain’t okay with that then ya don’t gotta say yes.”

Race beamed at Spot, shining through the almost pitch black room.

“I would love ya ta ‘old me.”

They rearranged themselves until Spot lay on his back and Race rested his head on his shoulder. Spot wrapped his arm around Race’s shoulders, holding him close as he rested his hand on Spot’s chest.

“I can feel ya ‘eart beatin’,” Race murmured, his voice muffled by Spot’s shirt.

Spot swooned, unable to bring himself to ask Race to move even though his position acted as a reminder of his chest. The way Race sighed happily made his heart leap and he found he didn’t care about his chest anymore, as long as Race was happy, he was happy.

His eyes drifted closed.

————

Snipeshooter eyed the cigar from his bunk. As always, it lay on Race’s bedside table, tauntingly unguarded. He glanced at Race, still fast asleep in Spot’s arms. Spot hadn’t moved at all and his breath stayed slow so, despite him not knowing the Brooklyn boy, Snipeshooter was certain he was fast asleep. He leant off the side of his bunk, reaching out to grab the cigar. His fingers brushed against it and then there was a hand on his wrist.

He yelped in shock, losing his balance and tumbling to the floor with the iron grip still on his wrist.

He slowly followed the hand to it’s owner and ended up staring at a pissed off King of Brooklyn.

“Get ya own,” Spot growled as he released his wrist and returned his hand to Race’s hair, closing his eyes again.

Whispers rippled across the room, snorts of laughter following them. Snipeshooter dragged himself off the floor and dropped onto his bed, ducking his head in embarrassment at his failure. Out of the corner of his eye, he spotted Race shift and look up at Spot. The two whispered back and forth for a moment then Race turned his head to face him.

“So ‘ave ya met Spot?” Snipeshooter scowled at his mocking tone but his response was swept away by Jack entering and the day beginning.

————

Race adamantly refused to let Spot walk him to the station, let alone to Sheepshead. He correctly pointed out that doing so would take time away from selling and eventually Spot backed down. If he sent instructions to the nearest street newsie group to keep an eye on Race, then that was only for Spot and the street newsies to know.

————

After a manic evening of craps games and catching up on the past few weeks, Race crashed onto Spot’s bed without even looking around the room. Spot chuckled from the doorway at his dramatics. Race rolled over onto his back, freezing with his hand half lifted.

He stared at the wall.

His face paled.

Spot followed his gaze.

Spot realised his mistake.

“Spot, what is on ya wall?” He asked carefully, sitting up.

“It’s mine.” Spot rushed out.

“I ain’t sure if I should be glad ‘bout that. What ‘appened?” Spot combed back his hair as he tried to find the words he needed to explain. “It’s from ya knuckles, ain’t it?”

It was barely a question. In combing back his hair, he had shown Race the back of his hands.

“Yes.”

Race held out his hands for Spot to place his into. As Spot settled into the desk chair to avoid the bed, Race examined his knuckles.

“Ya clean ‘em?”

“Sorta.”

“Good.” Race nodded as he spoke. As he ran his thumb around the open skin, he mumbled under his breath, barely audible to Spot. “I shoulda noticed.”

“Ya noticed now.” Spot smiled reassuringly at Race, smiling wider when Race’s frown eased.

Race lifted Spot’s knuckles to his lips, every so gently pressing a kiss to each one, beaming at Spot when he giggled at the sensation.

A knock sounded from the door but Spot didn’t care to separate their hands as the door opened.

“Good evening boys,” Mrs Kirby greeted from the doorway. “I am just doing my evening rounds. I will see you two at breakfast tomorrow.” Spot didn’t miss the way she turned slightly towards him as she mentioned breakfast. “If you need anything, Manhattan, do not be afraid to ask me or one of the boys. Goodnight, my dears.”

“Goodnight, Mrs Kirby,” they called out in unison as the door shut and they set about preparing for bed.

Race paused mid-movement.

“Ya said ya wrap ya top with fabric.” Spot tilted his head as a sign Race should elaborate. “I mean, if ya don’t unwrap ya top at night, do ya ever unwrap ya top?”

“Oh no, I unwrap my top most nights. I just ‘ad ta leave it when I was in ‘Hattan.” He left out the splintering pains that had been growing worse each hour.

“Ya gonna unwrap it tonight? Ya know I ain’t gonna judge ya for it, right?”

“I know.”

Perched on his desk, he removed his top and began to unwrapped the fabric from around his chest. As he began to fold the fabric, Race looked over at him and gasped.

“It ‘urt ya!” He cried out.

“I’ll be fine, ya don’t gotta worry. It’s just if I ‘ave ta wrap it for too long.” Race’s worried expression only slightly eased but he didn’t press Spot as Spot pulled his shirt back on.

“Spot, I don’t wanna upset ya so I gotta asked, if ya ain’t got ya top wrapped, ‘ow should I treat ‘em?”

Spot paused, thinking; he had never had cause to think about the topic before.

“Just act like theys fat or muscle, just don’t focus on ‘em any more than ya would focus on my arms or legs.”

Race nodded in understanding, then a cheeky grin began to form on his face.

“Spottie, I ain’t sure ya realise ‘ow much I focus on ya arms.”

Spot swatted at the laughing boy as he fell backwards, rolling himself into Spot’s bed as he went. He held his arm out, reaching for Spot.

Spot stared at the bed.

“Spottie?”

Spot shook the thoughts away, letting Race pull him into bed.

“What were ya thinkin’?”

“I ain’t been sleepin’ in bed,” he admitted with a sigh as he tugged Race into his arms. “I’ve been sleepin’ on the floor.”

A hand brushed through his hair, brushing the curls away from his eyes.

“Any reason why?” Race asked carefully.

“I hadn’t been feeling like ‘m allowed ta be a boy but I’ll be ok. Ya helpin’ more than ya know by bein’ ‘ere.” He wasn’t even bending the truth.

Race pressed a careful kiss to his cheek before snuggling into Spot’s arms.

Neither stayed awake much longer.

————

By the end of Race’s stay in Brooklyn, he had recovered enough to be allowed on the Brooklyn Bridge and so he resumed his old routine.

Both Race and Spot heard the rumours flying around the boroughs. No one claimed to know why Race had been allowed back, Spot Conlon did not allow second chances, but no matter what the newsies guessed, they all agreed on four things:

Spot Conlon is the most terrifying newsie in New York City.  
Jack Kelly is the most famous newsies in New York City.  
Racetrack Higgins is the only newsie to have two boroughs behind him.  
Racetrack Higgins is the most powerful newsies in New York City.

Race very quickly realised that he could go anywhere in any of the boroughs; no newsie wanted to be hunted down by both Spot Conlon and Jack Kelly for hurting him. Much to Jack’s exasperation, he used his new found freedom to find a poker group in every borough and if he wasn’t in Brooklyn or Manhattan, he could have been anywhere in New York.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is definitely the longest chapter I have but I just enjoy being mean too much... sorry, not sorry :P
> 
> Thank you for reading!


	11. Winter 1899

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> When Skittery ages out, Tumbler turns to Race for comfort.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TW: I don’t think there is any?

Race woke up to the sound of crying. He sat up, squinting through the darkness of the Manhattan Lodging House. The dim light from the street outside revealed a figure was awake, sitting with their head in the hands. Slipping from his bunk, he tiptoed across the room, carefully avoiding the creaky floorboards as to not wake the rest of the newsies.

“Hey,” he whispered, crouching down next to the crying figure. “Ya wanna tell me what’s wrong?”

The figure looked up at Race and his heart broke for the little. Tumbler’s bottom lip shook, his cheeks shining with tears as he choked back a sob.

“What is he don’t come back?”

Newsies didn’t have biological families but that didn’t mean they couldn’t form their own. The ‘he’ Tumbler mentioned was Skittery and the two were brothers, no matter what their last names were. Race was aware of the promise Skittery had made to Tumbler before he left earlier that day. He had aged out without work lined up so he was going to sleep at a friend’s place for a few days until he could find a job which would pay well enough to rent his own place. It was then he would return to get Tumbler, he wasn’t going to leave his little brother behind.

“He’ll come back fa ya, Tumbler. He’s ya brudda’.” Race settled on the side of the bunk, not objecting when Tumbler tucked himself into his side.

“But what if he don’t find work?” Tumbler wiped ineffectively at his eyes as Race wrapped an arm around him.

“He’s strong and he’s gotta brain, he’ll find somethin’,” Race reassured.

Tumbler nodded slowly then paused for a moment.

“I ‘ad a bad dream,” Tumbler mumbled into his shirt. “That’s why ‘m ‘wake. Skittery stays with me if I wake up.”

Race didn’t push Tumbler to talk; something was clearly still on his mind but he knew he would speak if he wanted to.

“Would ya stay?” Tumbler mumbled, staring up at Race with pleading eyes.

“Sure.” Tumbler smiled slightly at Race’s words, his eyes drifting shut.

When Race next looked down at the little, he was fast asleep. Race dropped his head back against the head of the bunk and closed his eyes, hoping Skittery would find work quickly, for Tumbler’s sake as well as for Skittery’s sake.

————

Race would never usually take a little to Brooklyn with him but he needed to go to Sheepshead, he simply wouldn’t make enough money in Manhattan, and Tumbler had glued himself to his side. Skittery had been gone for three days now, Tumbler growing quieter and quieter each day, and that morning he must have reached his breaking point, seeking out Race for comfort.

“We’s gonna ‘ave ta check yous allowed inta Brooklyn.”

The little didn’t respond with anymore than a nod as Race guided him towards the Brooklyn distribution centre.

“Hey Stitch, Spot ‘bout?”

“Over by the selling stand.” He gestured into the crowd. “What’s with the little?”

“He’s sellin’ with me today, I’ll explain later.”

Stitch simply nodded and waved a goodbye as he headed off, leaving Race to weave through the crowd.

As he broke through, he found Spot breaking up and argument between two littles. He let him send the two littles away before calling out.

“Hey Spottie,” Spot glanced over, raising an eyebrow at the duo.

“Hey Racer, who ya got with ya?”

“This is Tumbler.” Race reached down to ruffled Tumbler’s hair as a form of reassurance; the little trembling under Spot’s scrutiny. “His brudda’ aged out a few days ago and he ain’t ok with it. Ya ok if he sells at Sheepshead with me today?”

“Just keep an eye on ‘im, the boys don’t know not ta soak ‘im. I guess ya won’t be visiting after sellin’ tonight.” Race desperately wanted to visit the lodging house but he knew that Tumbler had to come first.

“Probably not.” Spot’s face fell, barely noticeably but Race rushed to comfort him. “I’ll visit tomorrow.”

“Ya betta’ be there.”

Race nodded firmly, waving goodbye as he guided Tumbler back into the crowd.

————

Tumbler barely moved the whole day but having a little clinging to his leg worked like a charm and Race sold both of their papers in record time. He even bought extra papers of the afternoon edition. Even after giving Tumbler his paper money and his half of the tips, Race’s pocket was still far heavier than usual as he headed back to Manhattan.

————

Skittery returned by the end of the week, an excited squeal heralding his arrival at the lodging house. Tumbler grabbed his limited belongings, hugged Race tightly, and left with Skittery. He didn’t properly say goodbye; Skittery had found a place near enough to the distribution gate for Tumbler to still be able to sell in Manhattan.

————

When Race walked past the chattering littles the next morning, he overheard Tumbler explaining that he wouldn’t be selling everyday, Skittery was able to send him to school two days a week. The rest of the days he would be selling papers as to help pay for their food.

Race left with a spring in his step.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know this is a bit of a filler chapter (sorry) but I did have a point when I wrote this. I included it because I believe Race does care about Manhattan and I felt that, because of how little I had showed that, Race was becoming increasingly out of character. I hope you enjoyed it anyway and the next chapter will be up within the hour.


	12. Spring 1900

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Roger returns.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TW: Homophobia and violence

“Conlon!” A man’s voice boomed through the lodging house as the door crashed into the wall.

Spot looked up and froze as he made eye contact with the man he hadn’t seen in years. An old scar tore down his cheek, cut deep into his flesh, and he had shaved his head but Spot knew who he was.

“What the fuck do ya think ya doin’ ‘ere, Roger?” He spat, rising from his throne to face him, the room mirroring him.

He silently thanked the newsies who had the sense to push the littles into the corners.

“Ya know, I thought I’d come down and visit. Bein’ locked in a cell gives ya an awful lotta time to think and ya know what I thought ‘bout?” He stepped closer and closer. “Everyone who ever disrespected me. Ya awful high on that list.” He growled down at Spot, grasping his shoulder.

Spot slapped his hand from his shoulder, growling back.

“If ya wanted ta be King of Brooklyn, ya shoulda acted like one. It ain’t all ‘bout bein’ tough.”

Roger roared with laughter, a cruel smirk on his face.

“That’s real lucky fa ya, ain’t it Conlon? ‘Cause I was walkin’ ‘ome last night and I saw somethin’ real interestin’.”

Realisation shot through Spot, terror crashing over him. When he was walking back from Sheepshead with Race, the two had crossed through an alleyway. With no one around, Spot had kissed Race briefly. When Race had pretended to be offended, Spot had spun him around, pressed him into the wall, and kissed him properly. When they had broken back, a figure stood at the end of the alleyway and they had bolted out the other side, not stopping until they reached the lodging house.

“Ya know exactly what ‘im talkin’ ‘bout, don’t ya?” He taunted. “‘Ow many times do ya think they’d hit ya? Do ya think they’d leave ya ta die or do ya think they’d do the ‘onors themselves.”

“Ya don’t know shit ‘bout ‘ow thinks work ‘round ‘ere anymore. They wouldn’t follow ya even if ya tried ta force ‘em to.” Spot growled back.

Roger laughed again, catching Spot’s jaw with his hand and forcing him onto his tiptoes.

“Ya misunderstand. I don’t give a fuck ‘bout the newsies anymore. I don’t want ta be where ya are, I just wanna tear ya life apart. I wanna make ya sob. I wanna break ya.” He chuckled to himself. “Yes, that’s what I’ll do, I’ll let ‘em ‘ave their fun and then I’ll find that ‘Hattan boy and I’ll let ya watch as I kill ‘im too.”

The door opened.

Race stood frozen in the doorway.

The hand left Spot’s jaw.

Roger took a step towards Race.

Spot threw himself forwards, smashing his fist into the side of Roger’s face. Roger spun, whipping a knife from his pocket and slashing forwards. Spot dropped, the knife flying over his head, and smashed his fist into Roger’s stomach. Roger staggered backwards and he stuck again, his fist crunching into Roger’s ribs. They cracked beneath his fist and Roger roared in pain.

The air glinted then pain burst along Spot’s cheek.

He kicked out as he grabbed his cheek, his foot colliding with Roger’s knee with a sickening snap. Roger roared again and pain shot through Spot’s side.

He collapsed backwards as Race appeared next to Roger, smashing his fist into his nose. Roger turned on Race but he vanished from Spot’s view as a group of newsies leapt forwards.

He glanced down, frantically searching for the source of the pain.

Bedded deep into the side of his stomach, the knife taunted him.

He dropped his head to the floor, silently registering the group of newsies exiting the lodging house with Roger slumped between them.

“No no no no no.” Race appeared in his darkening field of view. “Spottie ya gotta stay ‘wake.”

A hand rested on each of his cheeks and he forced his eyes to open, smiling weakly up at Race.

“‘M ‘wake.” His voice was slurred as he focused on Race.

“Do we take ‘im ta his room?”

“No, if we move ‘im it could get worse.” He recognised Stitch’s voice.

The two figures whispered back and forth, too quietly for Spot to follow.

“Hey Spottie,” Race held a tube of cloth. “Ya gotta bite down on this.”

He took a deep breath, forcing himself to relax and open his mouth, Race placing the fabric between his teeth moments later.

The pain in his side sparked into a wildfire as the blade pulled away. He flung his head back in agony, a cracking noise thundering through the room as his head collided with the floor.

Hands lifted his head from the floor and, as they placed him down again, he realised his head now rested on Race’s lap. He focused back on Race, on the sensation of fingers running through his hair and the warm brown of his eyes, as short sparks of pain rippled up from his side.

An eternity passed.

The hand in his hair stayed.

“‘M done.” The pain stopped flaring, a constant thrum of pain settling in his side. “I don’t think it hit anythin’ major so I think ya gonna be fine.”

Spot lost his fight to stay awake.

————

Spot awoke in his bed, Race’s arms curled around him and his back tucked against Race’s chest. He sighed, snuggling deeper into Race’s embrace as he drifted off.

————

When Spot finally awoke properly, Race was awake, drifting his hand through his hair as he chatted with Stitch.

“Good ta see ya awake.” Stitch commented.

“‘Ere.” Race held out a cup of water which Spot took, carefully sipping at it. “‘Ow ya feelin’?”

“Not as bad as I could be.” Spot prodded at the bandages around his stomach but he didn’t protest when Race stole his hand away.

“The good news is ya ribs are fine so ya don’t gotta worry ‘bout not wrappin’ ya chest.” Stitch’s comment made Spot realise his chest was unwrapped and his eyes widened in panic.

“We ‘ad ta unwrap ya ta check ya ribs but we were the only two ‘ere, I promise.” Race reassured, guilt thick in his voice. “Sorry fa not askin’ ya.”

“It’s ok, I trust yous.” Spot made eye contact with Stitch as he spoke before turning his head to make eye contact with Race, the guilt easing off his face as Spot looked at him.

A knock sounded at the door as Race returned the cup to the table. Stitch opened it enough for him to stand in it.

“It’s Fancy,” he explained.

Spot checked the blanket covered the curve of his chest; Spot knew Fancy wouldn’t care, he already knew, but he preferred to keep his exact details of his physique known to as few as possible.

“Let ‘im in.”

At Spot’s words, Stitch let the door open and the two boys leant against the desk next to each other. Fancy dropped two bags full of papers to the floor as he spoke.

“Theys real worried ‘bout ya but I got ‘em ta start sellin’. They got enough papes fa the two of ya so they should give yous some money tonight.”

The duo thanked Fancy then a thought hit Spot.

“What ‘appened ta Roger? He ain’t still ‘round ‘ere is he?” He felt Race’s arms tense around him and he squeezed the hand that held his in response.

“They dumped ‘im in Queens and followed ‘im all night.” Stitch explained. “Nickel and Dime just got back from their ‘our of followin’ ‘im and they said he left ‘is ‘ouse with a bag. ‘Pparently he’s a real mess, shakin’, bleedin’, and all that.”

“Serves that bastard right,” Spot growled.

“Who is he?” Race asked.

“I know the story so I’ll ‘ead off to start sellin’.” Fancy broke in.

“I’ll ‘ead off too. ‘M sellin’ just outside the lodging house if ya need me.”

Stitch and Fancy left, leaving Spot and Race alone to talk.

“So?”

“I became leader real young ‘cause Brass passed away and he ‘ad been trainin’ me ta take over from ‘im. Some of the the newsies weren’t too ‘appy ‘cause I’d only been a newsie fa two years. Roger was one of ‘em.”

He dropped his head onto Race’s shoulder, smiling as Race dropped a kiss onto his cheek, and continued.

“He dragged me ta and alleyway and soaked me ‘til I was ‘alf dead.” He brushed a thumb over Race’s cheek in an attempt to calm the horrified boy. “‘M ok, Racer, it was years ago. Flare found me and Stitch patched me up then Fancy ‘elped ‘em find out who I could trust. Roger was real cruel ta ‘em so they all ‘elped me return.”

“‘Ow old were you?” Race asked, his voice shaking as he held Spot close.

“Twelve.”

Race gasped.

“Ya were almost a little! But he soaked ya anyway?”

Spot shrugged.

“That’s just Brooklyn. It don’t matta’ ‘ow old ya are if ya fight well.”

Race nodded slowly, clearly upset by the answer. He hesitated.

“Ya think Roger will come back?”

“My boys will watch ‘im and if he ain’t gone by tonight, I’ll tell ‘em ta make ‘im leave.” He twisted his legs around to avoid twisting his stomach and reached up, looping his arms over Race’s shoulders and pressing their foreheads together. “Ya know I would do anythin’ ta keep ya safe, right? Ya don’t gotta worry ‘bout ‘im.”

Race smiled slightly.

“I know ya would, Spottie.”

Race caught Spot’s cheek, gently catching his lips in a kiss.

“Ya able ta stay ‘ere tonight?”

“‘M sure Jack won’t mind if I warn ‘im. Stitch sent someone ta ‘Hattan ta tell ‘em I was stayin’ last night and Jack ain’t sent anyone ta find me so he must be fine with it.”

“Good,” Spot mumbled as tiredness began to set in.

“Get some sleep,” Race whispered. “I’ll be ‘ere when ya wake up.”

Spot nodded, dropping his head to Race’s shoulder and letting his eyes slip shut.

————

When Stitch briefly returned to the lodging house at lunchtime, he went straight to Spot’s room to check on him. Silently cracking the door open, he smiled fondly at the sight before him.

Race sat against the head of the bed, his legs straight out in front of him as he slept. Spot was curled up on his lap, Race’s arm tucked under his bent knees to support them, and his head nestled into the crook of his neck. Spot’s arms looped loosely over his shoulders, not needing to hold himself up with Race’s hand resting against the back of his head.

With Spot clearly safe. Stitch gently closed the door and returned to his selling spot.

————

“‘M fine, Racer,” Spot protested as the arms wrapped tightly around him.

“Ya got stabbed, Spottie.” Race deadpanned.

“I gotta check on ‘em.”

“Ya gotta second fa a reason.”

“Please Racer, I ain’t moved all day.” Spot stared pleadingly up at Race, his determined expression softening as he looked back down at Spot.

“Ya promise ta be real careful?”

Spot nodded earnestly. Race sighed but loosened his arm, letting Spot stand. Letting Race rest his arm over his shoulders, the two boys headed for the main room.

As they opened the door, the room fell silent.

“What do you think you are doing out of bed?” Mrs Kirby scolded, quickly making her way across the room towards them.

“It ain’t like I ‘aven’t been ‘urt worse,” Spot protested, earning a frown.

“That is hardly comforting considering I do not remember you being worse than you are right now.”

“Don’t ya remember when I broke my ribs? That ‘urt a lot more.” As the words came out his mouth, Spot realised his mistake.

“What?” Echoed around the room, shocked expressions staring back at him.

“When the ‘ell did ya break ya ribs?” Race almost yelled in shock.

“Spot Conlon, you have some explaining to do.” Mrs Kirby’s face had paled at his words.

Spot gulped.

“I forgot I didn’t ‘ave chance ta tell yous, a Queens kid broke ‘em the day I got taken ta The Refuge and I didn’t tell ya after ‘cause I didn’t want ta worry ya for no reason. I promise theys ok now, Mrs Kirby.”

Mrs Kirby glanced over to Stitch.

“I saw ‘em when I wrapped his side and there ain’t nothin’ wrong that I could see.”

Mrs Kirby relaxed slightly, shaking her head at Spot.

“You better tell me next time you get hurt.” Spot sighed at her wording; it was true that he would almost definitely get hurt again before he aged out.

“I will.”

“Good, now off to bed with you.”

“I ain’t gonna do more than sit-” he gestured to his chair. “-and I’ll go back if it gets worse. ‘M gonna go insane if I don’t move.”

Mrs Kirby looked him up and down then relented, waving him towards his throne as she left the room. Spot settled in his throne, Race plopping down on a chair next to it.

“I get ya wantin’ ya move but I don’t get ya wanting ta leave ya bed.” A voice piped up. “Ain’t Race there ta keep ya company?”

Spot scowled, the room freezing. Race snorted with laughter and the tension broke, laughter rippling through the room. Spot glanced over at Race, smiling at his cheeky grin.

“So which of yous acted first?” Pitch piped up.

Spot and Race exchanged puzzled glances before Race answered.

“We ain’t really sure.”

“I think it was kinda both of us at the same time.”

“Aww.” and “Ain’t that sweet?” rung out from the crowd.

“‘Ow long ago?” Arthur asked.

“Ya remember when I threw paint at that fella?”

“That was ages ago!”

Race and Spot shrugged apologetically.

“‘Hattan didn’t know ‘bout me,” Race explained.

A chorus of understanding comments echoed around the room.

As the conversation continued, Race let his arm rest on the arm of Spot’s throne, smiling when a rough hand slipped into his grasp, weaving their fingers together.

————

“What’s this?”

Spot stared at his throne. During the night, one of the crates had been pushed next to it and covered with a deep red blanket. On top of the blanket sat a blue cushion.

“Remember when Brass gotta girl and she ‘ad that crate with the cushion?”

“I remember,” he mused. “This ya version fa Race?”

“He ain’t really the fluffy yellow cushion type so we put the red blanket ta show he’s Brooklyn and the blue cushion ta show he’s ‘Hattan.”

Spot nodded approvingly, glancing up at the door to his room as Race walked out.

“Mornin’ Racer,” Spot greeted, chuckling at the way Race groaned and dropped his head onto his shoulder.

“It’s too early,” he whined, ignoring the laughter from the surrounding newsies. “What’s so excitin’?”

“Why don’t ya get ya ‘ead off my shoulder and find out?”

Race sighed loudly, lifting his head to examine the room. He stared at the throne and the crate next to it.

“I ain’t sure I understand.”

“The last King of Brooklyn ‘ad a girl fa a while and she became the Princess of Brooklyn. It didn’t mean nothin’ ‘cept that she was under Brooklyn’s protection but she ‘ad a crate next ta Brass’ throne,” Spot explained, watching as Race’s face scrunched in confusion before his eyes widened in realisation.

“Ya sayin’ ‘im the Prince of Brooklyn?”

“I am. When Brass chose his princess, the rest of the lodging house made the crate comfortable ta show their approval and well-” he gestured to the crate.

Race beamed as he looked around the room.

“We’s got extra good news!” Fancy called out as he entered the room.

“Roger just got on a train outta ‘ere. He asked fa a ticket ta as far away as possible and he was still shakin’ so I don’t think we’s gonna see ‘im ‘gain.”

Race beamed at Spot as excited ramblings burst out across the room.

————

Despite Race’s concern at leaving Spot, he sold at Sheepshead that day. As soon as he had sold all but five papers, he caught the train back toward the lodging house. With his final few papers having sold on the train, he didn’t regret his decision to leave early and he definitely didn’t regret it when he found himself with his arms around Spot’s waist, holding him close as Spot kissed him.

A burst of cheers made him jump, pulling back to properly take in the room. The room was a busy as ever, the long journey from Sheepshead made him arrive late even though he left early, and the newsies were clearly in the middle of their usual evening activities when he entered. He flushed in embarrassment at the cheers, letting Spot take his hand and lead him over to the throne.

————

Spot reclined on his throne as Race relaxed on his, far less formal but apparently rather comfy, crate. The two boys chatted casually, their hand linked on the arm of Spot’s throne, relishing in their ability to hold hands in such a public place.

“Hey Spot, two of Jack’s boys are ‘ere ta see ya.” Flare yelled from the doorway.

“Let ‘im in,” Spot called back, letting Race choose whether to remove his hand or not, his mouth twitching into a smile as Race simply squeezed his hand.

Flare stepped to the side, letting Mush and Blink enter as she returned to her poker game, Thread handing back her cards as she sat down.

“So?” Spot asked, raising his eyebrow at the duo as glanced at each other.

“Jack wants ya ta send Race back tonight.” Mush explained.

“Why?” Race tilted his head in confusion, worry crossing his face.

“‘Cause ya ‘Hattan.” Mush snapped slightly as he spoke.

“I know that, I want ta know why he bothered ta send yous.”

“‘Cause last night the Brooklyn boys wouldn’t take no fa an answer.” Blink scoffed. “And ya know, I ain’t sure ya do know yous ‘Hattan anymore.”

Race stared at the two boys.

“What the ‘ell are ya talkin’ ‘bout?”

Mush hesitated, glancing at Blink.

“Do they know?” He gestured to the room.

“‘Bout me datin’ Spot? Yes, they know.”

“Just checkin’.” Mush took a deep breath. “Look at ya, Race. Ya sell in Brooklyn, ya play poker in Brooklyn, ya datin’ the King of Brooklyn, ya even gotta cushioned seat in Brooklyn.” Race opened his mouth to speak. “Don’t ya try ta deny it, Race. It’s the only blue thing in this place. And then ta top it all off, ya don’t even come ‘ome ta ‘Hattan some nights.”

Race stared at Mush, glancing at Blink who nodded back at him. Spot whined at the betrayal on both of their faces.

“I ain’t got plans ta make a habit of it. ‘M real sorry fa not comin’ back but I ‘ad ta stay.” Race slumped in his seat, withdrawing his hand onto his lap. Spot let him go but didn’t remove his hand in case Race wanted his support.

“Why? Ya ‘ad a poker game ta go to?” Blink snapped, his tone making Race visibly wince; Spot forced himself not to scowl.

“No! It ain’t my place ta say but ya gotta believe me that it was real important.” Race rushed out, staring up at Mush and Blink with desperation in his eyes.

“What could be so important that ya abandon ya ‘ome fa two whole nights.”

Spot was not going to let Race lose his family for him.

“He was with me ‘cause-”

“Fuckin’ ya fella? Real important, Racetrack.” Mush snapped as Spot grit his teeth.

“I wasn’t finished.” He growled. “He was with me ‘cause I got stabbed.”

The two Manhattan boys froze.

“Oh.” Blink said dumbly.

No one spoke.

“I’ll go back ta ‘Hattan with ya.” Race said quietly.

The two boys nodded silently.

“See ya tomorrow?”

Race nodded as a response and the trio left.

————

The trio talked the situation over as they headed home, Mush and Blink carefully not pushing for answers that it wasn’t Race’s place to give and Race carefully listening to Mush and Blink as they explained their issue with Race’s time in Brooklyn; they had realised during Race’s banishment that they missed having him around. They weren’t angry at Race, they were happy he had found another home, but they missed the days before Race started selling in Brooklyn.

“Ya don’t gotta change, Race, just please don’t start going ta Brooklyn more and more.” Mush nodded along to Blink’s words.

————

Jack crushed Race into a hug the moment he stepped through the door. Pulling back, he frantically looked him up and down.

“Are ya ‘urt? What did they do ta you?” Race furrowed his brow in confusion at Jack’s hurried question.

“What ya talkin’ ‘bout? They ain’t done nothin’ ta me.”

“Every newsie in the whole of New York’s been talkin’ ‘bout it. Sayin’ Brooklyn kids are followin’ someone. That they dumped a body in Queens. I ain’t usually the one ta listen ta those sorta rumours ‘cept ya didn’t come ‘ome and they didn’t give a reason. I was startin’ ta wonder if you’d been killed!” Jack grasped Race by the shoulder, his eyes full of concern as he looked at him.

“Spot got stabbed. The body ain’t a body, it’s the guy theys followin’, he’s the one who stabbed Spot.” Race wrapped Jack into a hug, letting the older boy hold him close as Jack slowly calmed. “I stayed ta make sure Spot was ok, I thought ya were ok with me stayin’ ‘cause they didn’t say nothin’ ‘bout ya sayin’ no.” He mumbled into Jack’s shoulder.

Jack sighed, breaking back from Race.

“At least yous ok.”

————

“Ok listen up the lotta yous.” Race yelled as he enter the Brooklyn Lodging House the next day. “If ya go ta tell Jack ‘m stayin’ the night, stop bein’ so fuckin’ confusin’ and just tell ‘im why ‘m stayin’. He was startin’ ta think the rumours of yous dumpin’ a body were true, that you’d killed me and ya were just hidin’ it from him.”

“Sorry Race,” a few voices mumbled from the crowd.

“Just don’t do it next time.” Race spun around to glare at Spot. “Spot Conlon, stop laughin’!”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I came up with Roger to give Spot a reason to trust Flare, Fancy, and Stitch so much but then I got the idea to bring him back and it was just too tempting.
> 
> Thank you for reading!


	13. Summer 1900

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> When Davey returns, Jack begins to choose him over Race.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TW: None that I can see

Race flopped onto the crate, dropping his head on to Spot’s shoulder with a sigh. Spot reached up and ran his fingers through Race’s hair as a greeting, continuing to scold the group of newsies; they had been returned to the lodging house by a bull.

“He coulda dragged the lotta yous of ta The Refuge and just ‘cause Snyder ain’t there, don’t mean it’ll be easy ta be there. I ain’t gonna tell yous again, do not play craps outside the lodging house.”

“Sorry, Spot.” The groups mumbled.

“Just don’t do it again,” he said with a sigh, waving the group away. As they scattered, he whispered down to Race. “Ya ok?”

“‘Hattan’s busier than ever, I ain’t to sure I got the energy today.” He mumbled sleepily.

“Ya wanna take a nap before ya ‘ead back?”

“Can’t.” Race rubbed his hand down his face as he pushed himself up. “I just came by ta tell ya that I can’t stay.”

“Yous been workin’ real ‘ard, Racer. Make sure ya get some rest too.”

Race smiled tiredly as he waved goodbye.

————

Shortly after the summer began, Davey and Les returned to selling. The two were on their summer holidays and wanted to see their friends, even if that meant working all holiday.

To clarify, Race was truly happy to see Davey and Les again. What he was not happy about, was the way Jack seem to forget who his second was.

————

Race barely noticed the first time, he was far too busy with a group of littles so it was only when they returned that he realised Jack and Davey had been to talk with Ark, the leader of Tompkins Square Lodging House.

He noticed the second time, when Jack took Davey to Flushing.

The third time, Jack took Davey to the Bronx.

Fourth time, Great Jones Street Lodging House.

Fifth, Flushing.

————

As Race dropped his cards onto the makeshift table, Arthur looked up at him.

“Hey, Race?”

“Hmm?”

“Are the rumours that ya ain’t ‘Hattan’s second anymore true?”

“What the ‘ell are ya talkin’ ‘bout?”

As Arthur explained what he had heard, Race slumped against Spot’s side.

————

Sixth, Richmond.

Seventh, a group of Manhattan street newsies.

Eighth, Queens.

————

“Anyone seen Jack?” Race called out, as he failed to teach their newest little how to tie their laces; he couldn’t quite remember Jack’s shoelace rhyme.

“He went ta Brooklyn ta discuss selling on the Bridge,” Crutchie called back.

“Lemme guess, Davey went with ‘im?” Race tied the laces properly and let the little run off.

“I think so, that matta’?” Crutchie asked as Race leapt to his feet.

“Sure it does! There ain’t another newsie in ‘Hattan who knows more ‘bout Brooklyn than me and there ain’t another newsie Spot listens to more.” Race exclaimed. “Most importantly, the second is meant ta be the backup at talks.”

He crossed the room, grabbing his paper bag and his hat from his bunk, and stopping by Splinter’s bunk.

“Hey Splinter?” He held his arms out for a hug which was instantly accepted. “‘M real mad at Jack right now but I ain’t leavin’ forever, ok?”

The little nodded and Race stood.

Crutchie, yous in charge.”

He stormed out into the bright evening streets.

————

Spot had just spat and shook on the deal when he spotted a figure approaching from behind Jack and Davey.

“Would ya look at that, Race don’t look like he’s at a poker game ta me.” Spot snapped the sentence; he didn’t like being lied to.

“Race? What ya doin’ out ‘ere?” Jack asked as Race passed the two Manhattan boys.

“Hey Spottie, ya mind if I crash in Brooklyn tonight,”

“Ya know ya always can, somethin’ the matta’?”

“Yes somethin’ is the matta’,” Jack snapped. “I don’t mind ya stayin’ in Brooklyn if ya gotta good reason but I need ya in ‘Hattan if there ain’t.”

Race spun on his heel to face Jack.

“Why?”

“What do ya mean, why?”

“Why do ya need me in ‘Hattan?”

“‘Cause yous my second.”

“Am I?”

Jack blinked at Race.

“What?”

“Am I ya second? ‘Cause leaders usually take their seconds ta talks.” He snapped, gesturing towards Flare, who stood just behind Spot.

“I take ya ta talks.”

“I know Brooklyn betta’ than anyone.” Race cut off Jack’s protest with his sharp words. “It ain’t just this time. It when ya go ‘round ‘Hattan, it’s when ya go ta Flushing, Richmond, the Bronx, Queens.”

“I’m sorry, Race.” Davey said apologetically but Race brushed him off.

“Ya don’t gotta reason ta be Davey, ya don’t choose who goes ta talks, Jack does.”

“Race, Davey’s good at talkin’ and the other newsies listen ta ‘im. I didn’t-”

“Fine.” Race cut Jack off. “Sounds like ya don’t need me. I’ll be in Brooklyn when ya realise that Davey is real smart and he’s real good with his words but he don’t know shit ‘bout ‘ow newsies think.”

He turned on his heel and stormed towards Brooklyn, Spot and Flare falling into step beside him without another word.

————

Race didn’t speak as Spot led him to his room. Spot settled down on the bed and opened his arms, his anger towards Jack flaring as Race shuffled forwards, curling into Spot’s arms. Spot brushed his hand up and down his arm as the boy lay mutely.

Race began to shake with silent sobs.

Spot held him as his tears dampened the front of his shirt.

Race went still, tears still staining his cheeks he fell into an uneasy sleep.

Spot brushed away his tears, gently dropping a kiss to the top of his head as he reluctantly extracted himself from the bed to herd the other newsies into bed.

Within minutes, Spot had Race back in his arms, holding him close as he racked his brain for ways he could help the boy he loved.

He froze when he realised what he had thought; love was a lot more than he ever dreamed of feeling.

He gazed down at Race, his heart beating wildly, parts of him screaming at him to run, that he had gotten too close and that he could only lose, then Race snuggled into his chest and silenced the thoughts.

Jack better sort himself out because Spot would risk everything for Race, the boy he loved.

————

The door of the Manhattan Lodging House crashed into the wall, newsies scattering to the edges of the room as Spot entered. Jack scowled at Spot’s intrusion, marching towards Spot.

“What do ya wan-” Jack gasped for breath as Spot slammed him into the side of a bunk by his neck.

“Lemme make one thin’ very clear.” He growled, his grip on his neck agonisingly tight. “Racetrack Higgins is the best thin’ ta ever ‘appen ta Brooklyn or ‘Hattan and I ain’t gonna let anyone ‘urt ‘im.” He paused, growling at the group of newsies who were slowly approaching. “Ya try and stop me talkin’ and Kelly ain’t gonna ‘ave a throat. Now Kelly, ya gonna ‘ave a nice long think ‘bout what ya gonna do. Ya gonna remember every single time that Race ‘elped ya. And then ya gonna decide whether ya need ta talk ta Race or not.”

Jack’s vision span dangerously as he gasped for air.

“Don’t choose wrong.” Spot spat and the grip on his throat vanished.

He coughed, gasping for air as careful hands helped him to sit up. His vision settled and he glanced around the room but Spot was gone, only the memory of his rage filled eyes left behind.

————

Spot settled next to the subdued Race, wrapping his arm around his shoulders as Race halfheartedly continued to play.

“Where did ya run off ta?” He mumbled, resting his head against Spot’s shoulder.

Spot gently rubbed his hand along Race’s arm, smiling when Race relaxed against his side.

“Don’t ya worry ‘bout it.”

————

Jack retreated to his penthouse, staring up at the sky as he thought.

Race was right, he had unfairly replaced Race with Davey. Spot was right, Race was the best thing that had happened to Manhattan.

Jack groaned, he knew he was in the wrong, he just needed to make sure he made it up to Race.

He would have to explain to Race that he never once thought Davey to be the better negotiator, Race was unrivalled in his knowledge of the boroughs, but Jack lived for moments with Davey. The way he talked, his accent lost to the school year, and with words Jack had only ever heard gentlemen use. The way he beamed at Jack when they made a deal with another borough. The way they would walk together, Davey talking about topics that Jack didn’t even know existed as Jack listened.

The way he never made him feel stupid, explaining words without complaint and explaining extraordinary concepts using words that Jack could understand.

Jack sighed.

He decided to find Race tomorrow, that he couldn’t risk waiting any longer, and then in the evening, he would tell Davey how he felt. The thought terrified him but he knew that he could lose far more trying to grab moments with Davey, than he would lose by telling him. After all, if the worst happened, if Davey told the bulls and they believed him, Jack could always leave for Santa Fe.

————

Race retreated to the safety of Spot’s room well before the rest of the boarding house went to sleep. As he settled under the covers, he let his thoughts drift. He thought about what the next few day would bring and from there came the terrifying thought that Jack might decide he is better suited to Brooklyn and tell him to stay. The idea brought tears to his eyes and, without the energy to care about them, he let them fall.

He cried silently.

He remembered his promise to Splinter; he really didn’t want to break it.

He lost track of time as he drifted.

A hand brushed across his arm and he jumped violently.

“It’s just me.” Spot’s voice was low and soothing. “‘M sorry fa scarin’ ya, ya didn’t respond when I talked ta ya.”

“Oh. ‘M sorry,” he mumbled as the bed dipped behind him.

An arm draped over his stomach as Spot lay behind him. He rolled himself over to face Spot, tucking his head under Spot’s chin as Spot pressed a kiss to his forehead. A thumb brushed across both of his cheeks, gently wiping away the tears.

“Ya wanna talk?” He wanted to but his tongue was lead. He shook his head. “Ok. ‘M ‘ere if ya need me.”

He nodded gratefully and let his eyes slip closed.

As he lay there, a thought bubbled up. In the future, when he is too old to be a newsie anymore, he wants Spot to be there beside him. He wants to fall asleep next to him each night and wake up next to him each morning. And that would be enough because he loves him.

He jerked when the last part of the thought hit him but there was a hand in his hair, gently curling through the strands, and that was enough to settle him. He drifted off as his heartbeat settled.

————

“Lost, Kelly?” A Brooklyn newsie taunted from across the street.

Jack turned, scowling at the presence of the Brooklyn newsie he had passed just ten minutes earlier.

“Ya know the answer ta that.” He snapped back. “Ya ain’t subtle when yous followin’ me.”

The newsie broke out laughing.

“Just keep goin’ straight.”

Jack nodded curtly and continued his trek to Sheepshead.

————

As Jack approached Sheepshead, he caught a glimpse of Race through the crowd as he spoke with a well dressed gentleman.

“-don’t seem quite like yourself today.” Jack caught the end of the man’s sentence he approached.

“It ain’t nothin’ big, Mr Hawdon. Just newsie business.” Race knew the man by name so Jack guessed he was a regular and hung back as to not break their conversation.

“Would you care to explain? You know I find newsies business to be fascinating, the way you have built an entire system of power from the ground up is remarkable.”

“Ya know I said ‘m ‘Hattan’s second?” Race began, the man listening intensely. “As second, ‘m ‘pposed ta go ta all the meetin’ ‘tween boroughs. Then this new boy comes along and is real good at talkin’ durin’ the strike so Jack starts ta take ‘im everywhere.”

“You feel like you are being replaced?”

“Kinda. I mean, it ain’t like I dislike Davey, he’s real nice, but he don’t know ‘alf of what I know ‘bout each borough. I didn’t say nothin’ ‘til a Brooklyn newsie asked me why I ain’t goin’ ta meetin’ anymore. ‘Pparently there’s rumours that I ain’t ‘Hattan’s second anymore. It’s real embarrassin’.” Race sighed, rubbing his hand down his face.

“Why do you not move to Brooklyn permanently? You seem to rather enjoy the time you spend here.”

“I do enjoy Brooklyn, I get on real well with the fellas. But ‘Hattan’s my ‘ome, I can’t leave my family.”

“It sounds to me like you have some thinking to do. I must be going or I shall not manage to eat this lunchtime, I hope you figure out what to do.”

“See ya ‘round, Mr Hawdon.”

The man smiled as he headed off down the streets.

With Race unoccupied, Jack called out.

“Race?”

Race’s expression went blank as he approached.

“What do ya want Jack?”

“I want ta talk.”

“‘M tryin’ ta sell my papes.”

Jack dug into his pocket, handing Race a dollar.

“Ok?”

“Fine. Talk.”

Jack glanced around the bustling streets.

“I always knew I shoulda been takin’ ya with me ‘stead of ‘er.” Realisation flashed over Race’s face as Jack continued. “I was doin’ it ta get time with ‘er but I shoulda thought ‘bout ya first.”

Race stayed silent.

“Imma tell ‘er tonight.”

Race stared up at him, concern furrowing his brow.

“What if it don’t go well?”

The question echoed around Jack’s head; he knew the risk he was taking. Davey wasn’t a proper newsie so he didn’t deal with things the same way. Jack knew how a newsie would react if he disapproved of Jack’s feelings, he would either throw a punch or spread the news to every other newsie in the city, but Davey wouldn’t. Jack had no idea what he would do instead.

“If it goes bad, I don’t see ‘er ‘gain. If it goes real bad, there’s always Santa Fe.”

Race clenched his jaw at his words but he didn’t protest.

“I hope ya stay.”

“So do I.” Jack dropped his head, rubbing at his forehead with the heel of his hand. “Will ya come back ta ‘Hattan?”

“I’ll come back tonight.”

Jack nodded, heaving a sigh of relief.

“I betta’ head back, I don’t know ‘ow ya walk this each day.”

Race spluttered.

“Ya walked? I ain’t got the time ta walk it, I get the train.”

“Oh.”

With a series of instructions from Race, Jack set off back to Manhattan.

————

Race did return to Manhattan that night and Jack did talk to Davey.

————

“Davey?”

Davey glanced up from his book to look at Jack. The older boy had been jumpy ever since they had finished selling and met up with each other.

“Are you ok?”

Jack shuffled back against the wall of Davey’s building. On the fire escape, they were isolated from everyone, the unusually cold wind forcing everyone to keep their windows closed.

“I gotta tell ya somethin’ and if ya ‘ate me after, I ain’t gonna blame ya. Just, if ya do ‘ate me, please don’t tell the bulls.” Davey was growing worried as Jack’s speech began to speed up. “Ya don’t ‘ave ta talk ta me ‘gain, I’ll leave ya be if ya want me to, just don’t tell the bulls. I-”

“Jack.” Jack’s mouth snapped shut. “Tell me first, you might find I don’t hate you at all.”

Jack nodded shakily, opening and closing his mouth a few times before he finally spoke.

“I don’t like girls like I should. I like fellas like I should like girls.”

“I thought ya liked Sarah,” Davey asked carefully.

“I thought I did.” Jack tore his fingers through his hair, the harshness of his action making Davey wince sympathetically. “And if I liked any girl, it woulda been Sarah. But I can’t like girls no matta’ ‘ow much I try and I just-” He trailed out.

“Jack, you don’t have to worry, I’m not going to tell anyone.” Relief visibly flooded over Jack’s features. “Can I ask, what made you want to tell me?”

Davey could see Jack starting to panic but he didn’t know why so he held back in case he made it worse.

Eventually Jack took a deep breath, looking up at Davey with wide, panicked eyes and spoke.

“‘Cause I like ya, Davey.”

Oh.

Oh shit.

Davey stubbled for words.

“‘M sorry!” Jack frantically shuffled back. “I shouldn’t ‘ave said nothin’. I’ll leave. Ya don’t gotta see me ‘gain.”

“Wait.”

Jack froze.

“Would you sit?”

Jack shuffled back to a sitting position, the fire escape stretched out between them.

“I’m sorry that I don’t feel the same way, Jack, but I don’t hate you for it. I would like to stay friends if we can.”

Jack didn’t move as he finally spoke.

“Ya don’t ‘ate me?”

“No, I don’t have a problem with any of it.”

“So, friends?”

Davey smiled at Jack.

“Friends.”

A hit of a smile crept onto Jack’s face.

“I betta’ ‘ead back.”

“See you tomorrow?”

Jack beamed as he nodded.

————

The rest of the summer, Jack stayed true to his word and let Race do his job as his second. As he rejoiced that Race had forgiven him, he was relieved to realise that Davey had forgiven him as well. He stayed friends with Davey and they quickly fell back into the same sort of conversations and routines that they had had before.

————

Just after the anniversary of the strike, Jack aged out and took a job in Upper Manhattan. With his new job too far away from the lodging house, he quickly moved out and into a flat he rented.

Jack named Race as his successor.

On his first day, Race didn’t sell a single paper. He spent the whole day at the lodging house, speaking to the leaders of every one of the lodging houses in Manhattan as well as the leaders of every single street newsie group in Manhattan. He could tell they were scrutinising him, waiting for proof that he would be able to fill the Jack Kelly shaped hole left behind. After all, Jack Kelly had called every single working boy to join the strike and they had listened, what had Racetrack done?

In the evening, every leader in the entire city made their way to Manhattan for dinner. The leader’s table had been positioned down the centre of the room, the plates of food already laid out. The Manhattan newsies watched silently as the leaders entered.

The Manhattan leaders entered first.

Then the Bronx arrived.

Then Flushing.

Richmond.

Queens.

Staten Island.

Brooklyn.

Race made eye contact with Spot.

Spot walked down to the head of the table.

No one moved.

They watched Spot grow closer to Race.

Race spotted the tense expressions of the leaders out of the corner of his eye; when the other leaders had hosted their dinners, Spot had barely acknowledged some of them and the most he had ever done was declare Martha to be acceptable.

Spot stopped in front of him. He spat on his palm and held it out. Race spat and took Spot’s hand.

They shook.

Spot spoke.

“‘Hattan is lucky ta ‘ave ya as a leader.” His lips curved slightly, almost smiling at Race.

A shocked breath echoed through the leaders.

“So ‘bout the Bridge sellin’ spots?” Race asked, grinning cheekily.

Spot burst out laughing, the other leaders jumping in shock.

“Not a chance,” he scowled lightly as they took their seats, Race at the head of the table and Spot at the first seat on his left.

As the leaders began to eat, Race caught a snippet of conversations.

“I ain’t ever ‘eard Conlon laugh before.”

“I ‘ave. Right before he soaked me.”

“Ya think we should worry?”

“‘Bout ‘Hattan bein’ friends with Brooklyn? Definitely.”

The conversation was lost to the chatter of the hall.

————

Spot leant against the side of the lodging house as Race said goodbye to each of the leaders. As the last leader vanished down the street, Race invited him inside. He didn’t take Spot to the penthouse, instead he lead him to a slightly cramped room in the attic. With low ceilings and no windows, Spot could see why Jack had claimed the rooftop instead.

“Not gonna sleep outside?” Spot asked as he settled next to Race, both of them leaning back against the wall with their legs stretched out across the bed.

“It don’t feel like it’s mine. That’s Jack’s space, ya know?” Spot nodded in understanding as the two boys sat in silence.

Race curled up, wrapping his arms around his legs and dropping his head to his knees.

“Ya wanna tell me what yous thinkin’?” Spot wrapped his arm over Race’s shoulders, his concern growing when Race didn’t curl into his side as he usually would.

“I ain’t sure ‘m ready ta lead.” Race mumbled.

“No one is.” Race glanced up at Spot’s words. “Ya can’t learn ta lead. Ya can learn ‘bout the boroughs and ‘ow ta look after ya newsies but ya can’t learn ta lead. Ya just gotta jump and it’s real scary but ya ain’t ‘lone.”

“What if I mess up?”

“If ya mess up, ya boys will ‘elp ya fix it. If ya mess up worse than ya boys can fix, and even Jack didn’t manage that, ya ‘ave Brooklyn behind ya.” Race smiled slightly, curling into Spot’s side as he rested his head on his shoulder.

“Thank ya, Spottie.” Spot pressed a kiss to the top of his head in response. “When do ya ‘ave ta ‘ead back ta Brooklyn?”

“I don’t gotta leave tonight if ya don’t want me ta.”

“For real?” Race glanced up at Spot, beaming when he nodded. “‘M real glad I got soaked by Tower.”

“Ya coulda just asked me ta let ya sell in Sheepshead.”

“Would ya ‘ave said yes?”

Spot paused, pursing his lips.

“No.”

Race broke out laughing, pressing a kiss to the side of Spot’s face. Before he could pull back, Spot caught his cheek with his hand and drew them into a kiss. A hand wove into his hair as he pressed forwards, wrapping an arm around Race’s waist as he guided him down to the bed. Race pulled back, his head dropping to the pillow as they both tried to catch their breath.

Spot gazed down at Race, sprawled out beneath him. He reached down, brushing his thumb across Race’s cheek.

————

Race gazed up into Spot’s eyes as he pressed him into the mattress. Spot’s hair slipped forwards, brushing against the edge of his face. His thumb brushed across his cheek, so gently that the rough skin felt soft against his cheek. Race reached up, cupping Spot’s cheek as Spot dipped down to kiss him again. A hand drifted against his side, settling against his bare skin, warm and grounding.

“Racer,” Spot whispered as he tugged back slightly. “Ya don’t gotta say it back but I gotta tell ya.” Spot lent down, resting his forehead against Race’s as Race lost himself in Spot’s sincere gaze. “I love ya.”

Race’s world lit up.

“I know I don’t gotta say it but I’ve want ta tell ya fa a while. I love ya too, Spottie.”

Spot beamed, dipping down to catch Race’s lips. The hand on his side and the hand on his cheek held him together as he melted into Spot.

————

When Spot pulled back for the last time, he gestured to the small clock on the nightstand and Race dragged himself away from Spot to herd the rest of the lodging house into bed.

“Alright!” He yelled out over chaos of the room.

Every newsies spun to look at him, breaking out into cheers.

“Damn, Race!” Mush yelled from the corner of the room as the littles looked on in confusion.

“Ok! Ok!” He called out as the cheers simmered down. “Ya didn’t even do that Romeo came back real early in the mornin’ and I know I ain’t lookin’ ‘alf as bad as he did.”

“Romeo ‘as a new girl every week-” Blink pointed out.

“Hey!”

“-And it ain’t every day that someone sleeps with the King of Brooklyn.”

Realisation swept over Race and his face burnt red.

“No! We didn’t, we just,” he spluttered then sighed. “Just go ta bed.”

————

Race flopped into Spot arms, mumbling into his shoulder.

“They thought we slept together.”

Spot burst out laughing at Race’s disgruntled expression, laughing harder when Race swatted at him.

————

Crutchie stared out across the city as he sat alone in the penthouse. With Jack gone, he only had their memories of nights in the penthouse to comfort him and so, even through dinner was drawing nearer, he was reluctant to leave.

“Hey Crutchie?” Race’s voice snapped him back to earth and he jumped. “Ya looked real lost there.” Race commented as he plopped down next to him.

Crutchie nodded with a sigh.

“What ya doin’ up ‘ere?”

“Lookin’ fa ya. I need ta ask ya somethin’.” Crutchie gestured for him to continue. “Will ya be my second?”

Crutchie’s eyes widened in shock.

“Race I would love ta be.” He beamed at Race but his smile faded as a thought hit him. “Race, ya know ya second is meant ta take over as leader when ya leave, right?”

“‘Course I do.”

“Ya don’t see the issue with this.”

“The crutch don’t matta’ ta ‘Hattan.”

“It’ll matta’ ta the other boroughs.”

Race paused, staring at Crutchie.

“Are ya worried ya won’t be able ta lead or are ya worried other boroughs will target ‘Hattan fa bein’ weak?” There was no judgment in his voice.

“Both I guess.”

“That’s all ya worried ‘bout, right?” Crutchie nodded, staring in confusion when Race suddenly grinned. “Well ya don’t gotta worry ‘cause I got the answer. Yous only gonna be leader fa a year ‘fore ya leave so we gotta think ‘bout the next leader too. Ya know who still got four years? Boots.”

Crutchie paused, thinking.

“Boots would be a good leader.”

“Exactly! So I’ll ‘elp train ‘im then yous can do what Jack did, keepin’ the boys in one piece and makin’ decisions, and Boots can do what I did, dealin’ with other boroughs and all that.”

“Ya know, that might just work.” Race beamed at Crutchie.

They fell into an easy silence as they looked out over the city.

————

Despite being Manhattan’s leader, there was no way that Race was leaving Sheepshead behind. He couldn’t risk Mr Hawdon retreating the job offer and the tips brought in more than he ever could in Manhattan. So each morning he left Manhattan just after the distribution gates closed and each afternoon he only bought papers that he would be able to sell before his last tip returned. Although he was hard to find during the day, his new schedule allowed him to arrive back in Manhattan no later than Jack normally would.

As for seeing Spot, they fell into a schedule that was both less than ideal and the best they could do.

Each Monday, Race would stay late in Brooklyn to catch up with his friends. Spot would always be there, a part of the conversation as much as he ever joined conversations, and then they would walk to the bridge together, Race running back to Manhattan in time to send his boys to bed.

Each Thursday, Spot would wait for Race and the two would walk the bridge together before spending the evening chatting in the main room of the Manhattan lodging house, often as Race took part in some form of game. Spot would spend the night, heading back to Brooklyn in time to get his boys up and off to breakfast.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> These boys are in love and they know it <3
> 
> Writing Jack’s scene was painful because Jack and Davey are so cute together but there simply wasn’t enough space to build another good relationship in this book so I rewrote and Jack suffered for it... I am actually sorry about this
> 
> I hope you enjoyed reading this chapter!


	14. Autumn 1900

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Race ages out and a plan is set into motion.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TW: I don’t think there is any.

“I don’t get it,” Crutchie glanced over at Race who lay sprawled out on the floor of his bedroom.

“This ain’t ‘bout Queens is it?” Crutchie asked, sighing when Race shook his head. “Ok, what don’t ya get.”

“Why did Jack make me leader if I ain’t even gotta whole season ‘fore I age out.”

“He thought ya would have longer.” Race propped himself up on his elbows, staring up at his in confusion.

“‘Ow?”

“He never planned ta stay in New York, thought he would leave fa Santa Fe.” Crutchie sighed at the memory, of the way Jack’s eyes lit up at the thought of escaping New York.

“Oh.”

Race dropped back to the floor.

They sat in silence.

“What ya gonna do when ya leave?”

“Got offered a job at Sheepshead so I’ll move ta Brooklyn.” Race replied glumly.

“Fa real? That’s brilliant!” Crutchie couldn’t see any reason for Race to be upset about the job.

“I know but I ain’t gonna get it if I can’t speak all proper.”

“Get Davey ta teach ya.”

Race stared at him in disbelief.

“Ya deaf or somethin’? I ain’t able ta talk like that.”

“Ya might as well try.”

Race just sighed.

“‘Ow ‘bout ya, what yous doin’ when ya age out?”

“Kloppman offered ta lemme work fa ‘im fa as long as I need. It ain’t gonna be forever, I’ll try ta find somethin’ else but I ain’t gonna be easy with my bum leg.”

“You’ll ‘ave ta check ya bed ‘fore ya get in.”

“I ‘ave ta do that already, I ain’t learnt nothin’ from livin’ ‘ere.”

Race burst out laughing.

————

“You want me to teach you how to speak like me?” Davey raised an eyebrow at Race. “You know you’re going to have to change everything from your accent to how you form sentences, right?”

“I gotta get this job, Davey, there ain’t gonna be nothin’ else betta’.”

Davey sighed.

“Fine, I’ll help.”

“Thank ya!” Race wrapped Davey in a hug. “What’s first?”

Davey paused, thinking back on the conversation.

“Well, you are going to have to stop saying ain’t.”

“That ain’t dif- oh.”

————

Mush and Blink ended up leaving before Race, both having successfully found jobs and rented a place together. They never said anything but something told Race they had no plans to move to anywhere bigger; not once did they complain about the lack of a second bedroom.

————

Exactly one week before he aged out, Race dressed in his smartest clothes, which were admittedly not that smart, and set off for Sheepshead.

He took a deep breath and entered the track, carefully weaving through the crowds in search of the main reception. Calmly entering, he approached the front desk.

“Good morning, I am here ta- to speak to Mr Hawdon.”

“Name?” The receptionist asked, glaring suspicious at him over the top of her glasses.

“Racetrack Higgins.” The women rolled her eyes, mockingly glancing through a book on her desk.

“I’m afraid-” She paused. “Up those stairs and to your left.” She gestured to a doorway labelled ‘Staff only’ and Race didn’t let her change her mind, calmly walking to the door and following her directions.

He found himself in a large lounge, clearly some form of break room, with plush velvet sofas which, if he was to describe, would probably sound like Jack’s description of Pulitzer’s house but with less gold. If the room wasn’t staring at him, he would have bolted; he had never felt so dirty and out of place.

“Excuse me, I do not know how you got up here but this room is strictly staff only.” A man snapped but Race held his ground, reminding himself that these men were all bark and he had talked down far worse.

“I apologise for the intrusion-” The word slipped carefully off his tongue, he knew his presence would be challenged but he had practiced a lot. “-however I was informed that Mr Hawdon would be here.”

“Are you not the newsboy who sells by the gates?” Another man spoke up.

“I am.”

A door opened at the back of the room, and two men walked out. Mr Hawdon instantly spotted Race, crossing the room and holding out his hand to shake.

“Racetrack, I do hope you have not been waiting long.” He greeted with a smile as Race shook his hand, remembering Davey’s repeated insistence that spitting on his palm first would not be appreciated.

“Not at all.”

“Well you sound rather different.” He quirked his eyebrow as Race flushed.

“Davey gave me lessons.”

Mr Hawdon nodded, an impressed expression on his face as he turned to his colleagues.

“I do apologise for not warning you beforehand. I invited Racetrack here to discuss hiring him.” He turned back to Race. “Do follow me.”

————

By the time Mr Hawdon finally guided Race from his office, Race had both a job offer and instructions to be back in the break room for 9 o’clock the next morning so Mr Hawdon could take him to get everything he needed before starting work the next day; thankfully he understood that neither Race or any of his friends knew anything about buying suits.

As Mr Hawdon shook his hand one final time, he paused.

“I appreciate that it is rude to ask, and I apologise for doing so, but I am afraid I shall have to ask for your real name.”

Race took a deep breath before saying the name that he barely remembered ever being called.

“Anthony Higgins. To be truthful, I might not respond to Anthony at first but I will try.”

“Well I suppose that is all I can ask for.” Mr Hawdon joked with a laugh. “I shall see you tomorrow, do not be late.”

“I will not.” Race promised as he left.

————

After an exhausting day of shopping for suits and ties and hair products and a magnitude of other items, Race was finally free to leave. He headed straight for the Brooklyn boarding house to find Spot.

As he entered, the room stared in shock, silently examining him. Spot was frozen on his throne, his eyes drifting up and down him. He visibly snapped back to reality, shooting to his feet and approaching Race.

“Ya clean up well.” Race grinned.

“It ain’t too bad is it?”

“No it ain’t.” Spot mumbled, grabbing his hand and briskly walking though the room with Race just behind him.

As the door to Spot’s room shut behind them, Race went to speak.

“What-”

Spot pressed him into the door as he caught him a possessive kiss.

“Gorgeous,” Spot mumbled, his lips brushing over his as he spoke. “Ya look so fuckin’ ‘andsome.”

Race giggled, tangling his hand in Spot’s hair and drawing him back in for another kiss.

————

Race did make it back to Manhattan that night but Spot insisted on walking him the whole way. Race was thankful, well aware of his new attractiveness to pickpockets and muggers.

————

When Race finally aged out, he moved into a flat not far from the Brooklyn Bridge as to allow him to visit both lodging houses whilst also being just a train ride away from Sheepshead. It was bigger than he had ever dreamed of, a whole two bedrooms, but he could afford it; Sheepshead paid him well for his talents.

Spot was the first to visit him, whistling in approval as he looked around. He couldn’t stay long, he had a meeting with Queens, but just a few days later, he visited again.

“Race, I’ve been thinkin’.”

Race glanced backwards from where he lay in Spot’s arms, worry setting in at his serious tone.

“‘Bout?”

“I don’t want ta ‘ave to leave ya.” Race spun to face him.

“Please don’t say ya ‘ave ta, Spottie.” He pleaded, panic settling in.

“‘Ear me out. Ya ain’t a newsie anymore and soon I ain’t either. People ain’t gonna believe we ain’t able ta find a girl forever.” Spot caught his cheek. “Breathe, I ain’t gonna leave ya. I’ve been thinkin’ of ways ta not ‘ave ta.”

“Ok.” Race tried to force his breaths to slow.

“I talked ta Flare and Thread, theys datin’ too, and they agree this could work. We could pretend we’s datin’ ‘em and we all move in together when we age out.”

Race hesitated, thinking.

“‘Ow would it work?” He asked cautiously; he hated the idea of having to pretend at all but this could be something he could cope with.

“We’d ‘ave ta talk ta ‘em proper so we’s all agree but I think we would just talk ‘bout them as our girl. Maybe be seen with ‘em occasionally.”

Race ducked his head as he thought the idea over.

“Ok,” he said finally.

Spot smiled, letting him curl back up into his arms and rest his head against his shoulder.

“I know it ain’t perfect,” Spot whispered soothingly.

“‘Long as I got ya, ‘m ‘appy.” Race whispered back, his lips twitching into a smile as Spot dropped a kiss onto his forehead.

————

Flare moved in by the end of November and they both struggled to adapt to their new arrangements. It wasn’t like they didn’t get on, whenever Flare did manage to visit the lodging house they had always chatted easily. The issues came when they began to use their new found space.

“Flare, what is this?” Race glared at the offending object.

Flare glanced over from where she sat with Thread and Spot.

“That’s a stockin’,” she explained slowly.

Race spun around in annoyance.

“I know it’s a stockin’, I ain’t stupid. Why is it in the kitchen?”

“‘Cause I ‘aven’t put it in my bedroom yet?”

Race bundled it up, launching it across the room toward Flare and hitting her on the forehead. Thread and Spot sniggered at Flare rolled her eyes, heading off towards her room, yelling over her shoulder as she went.

“If ‘m movin’ this, ya betta’ get ya sock off the chair.”

Race glared at the sock but moved it to his bedroom without protest.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We are almost at the end, just a few more chapters to go! Thank you so much for reading!


	15. Winter 1900

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Race and Thread’s first date has disastrous consequences.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TW: Violence (but if you’ve gotten this far, you’re probably ok)

Spot did not let many people into his personal space and of those people, only Race was allowed in with any form of frequency. Flare was not much better although her group was slightly larger. Race and Thread had no such boundaries. For this exact reason, it was decided that Race would pretend to date Thread and Spot would pretend to date Flare.

Race and Thread had never truly spoken before but, now they did, they got along like a house on fire, bonding over everything from the best mid-selling day snack to dealing with their respective partners; both agreed that ice cream won by far and that there was nothing better than listening to the horror stories with the knowledge that they are both complete saps.

When, on the first week of winter, they decided to begin fake dating, Race proposed eating dinner in Tompkins Park. They didn’t need to go on many dates, just a few romantic ones so they could easily prove their romance.

The dinner went smoothly. Race sat with his arm over Thread’s shoulders as they bickered over sandwiches. If they had truly been dating, Race would have broken up with Thread over her love of lettuce sandwich. She called them refreshing, he called them tasteless.

“Thread?” Race broke the conversation as the feeling that they were being watched set in.

“Hmm?”

“I don’t know why but I feel like we are bein’ watched.”

Thread tensed against his side.

“We ain’t doin’ nothin’ interestin’.”

“No but it would hardly be the first time the Delanceys ‘ave gone outta their way ta find me.”

“Theys still ‘ate ya?” Thread tilted her head in confusion. “Ain’t they too old ta care ‘bout newsie things anymore?”

“They hold grunges fa a remarkably long time.”

A movement caught his eye.

“Let’s ‘ead back.” Thread whispered.

Race nodded, holding out his hand to help her up. As they set off across Brooklyn, Race swore that the sets of footsteps behind them stayed slightly too constant considering their unusual path. He wrapped his arm over her shoulders so they could whisper without being noticed.

“They are most definitely followin’ us.”

“If we turn, theys gonna know we’s seen them.”

“Could ya pretend to be doin’ another thing whilst ya look?”

“I gotta idea,” Thread whispered finally.

She giggled lightly, wrapping her arms over Race’s shoulder as she pressed a brief kiss to his cheek. Race faked laughing at her actions, tugging her closer to his side as they resumed walking.

“Theys newsies,” she whispered in confusion.

“Queens?”

“No, Brooklyn.”

Race furrowed his brow but a hand on his shoulder cut his response off. Yanking Thread out of his grasp, the hand spun Race around to reveal a group of four familiar newsies. The group were old for newsies, despite only having been newsies for the past year or so, and all lived at the main Brooklyn lodging house.

“Ya bastard,” Pearl snarled, his fingertips digging painfully into Race’s wrist.

Race glanced over Pearl’s shoulder, past Oats and Shark to see Thread being held by Gaps, her arms pinned to her sides as blood dripped down Gaps’ cheek.

“Let her go,” Race snarled back, panicky when Oats and Shark stepped forwards, blocking her from view.

“Ya know,” Oats snapped. “I don’t think we need an explanation.”

A fist smashed into Race’s eye and he lashed out. His fist cracked against Pearl’s jaw but Shark grabbed him from behind, tossing him to the floor. His head cracked against the floor. Pain began to burst like fireworks across his back and sides.

A voice yelled but the blows didn’t lessen.

At some point, he blacked out.

————

Poker games have far more variety of winners when Race isn’t playing, Spot notes silently as Pitch leapt up, yelling in joy as he swept the pile of coins towards him. He turned back to Flare who was perched on the bunk next to him.

“Ya think theys ok?”

“‘Ow much can ‘appen durin’ a picnic?”

“‘Ave ya met Race?”

Flare burst out laughing at Spot’s words but her answer was cut off when a voice called out.

“Spot?”

He glanced over, turning to face Pearl, Oats, and Shark who had just entered.

“Everythin’ ok?” He asked, noting the harsh red of Pearl’s jaw.

“We’s fine but we found somethin’ ya ain’t gonna like.”

The whole room looked up, watching with intrigue at his cryptic response.

“Well?”

The group hesitated. Oats shoved Pearl who rushed out his sentence.

“Race ain’t bein’ faithful.”

Panic swept through Spot as the situation became clear. He glanced at Flare who had visibly paled.

“What did ya do ‘bout it?” Spot fought to keep his tone level.

“We soaked ’im fa ya.”

“Where?” The calm facade lay shattered on the floor.

“‘Bout four blocks ta the left outta ‘ere.” Spot could see the terror on Pearl’s face but didn’t care.

“And Thread?” Spot snapped.

“Gaps is takin’ ‘er ‘ome.”

Spot and Flare exchanged glances, the fear pumping through their veins propelling Spot into action.

“Nickel, Dime, yous in charge.” He yelled as he grabbed his hat from the bed. “Stitch, come with us.” He didn’t need to ask Flare to follow.

“Ya ‘eard that he ain’t bein’ faithful, right?” Shark almost whispered, backing away.

“And yous,” he snapped. “Betta’ ‘ope theys ok ‘cause I’ll kill ya if they ain’t. Don’t let ‘em leave!” He yelled over his shoulder as he burst out of the lodging house and into the bitterly cold night.

————

Thread struggled against Gaps as he carried her through the abandoned streets. He was twice her size but she knew she had to get back to Race and get him to safety. He held her sideways, one arm pinning her arms to her side and the other holding her legs to stop her kicking, so lashing out was simply not an option.

She wiggled her fingers and a thought hit her. She stabbed her fingers into his chest, the shock loosening his grip on her legs just long enough for her to smash her knee into his nose.

He yelped, dropping her to the ground. Scrambling to her feet, she darted down the streets, weaving through the streets and into the park. She tumbled to the ground, letting him pass her as she wiggled under a hedge and back onto the streets. She took off for the lodging house, they weren’t far away when they were attacked, and as she rounded the corner, she finally spotted him.

She darted across the street, dropping down next to him as she frantically searched for a sign that he was alive.

“Thread! Race!”

She glanced up, almost sobbing with relief. Flare guided her away, wrapping her into a hug as Stitch took her place.

————

Race was ok.

Race was ok.

Race was ok.

Spot repeated the phrase over and over in his head as Stitch checked Race over. He had come around just as Spot had placed him down on his bed but he swayed worryingly. Spot knew how close Stitch had to be to kicking him out so he forced himself to remain still, leaning against the wall instead of pacing as he wanted to.

“Ok, ya betta’ get some rest.” Stitch stood, finally allowing him to hover by the head of the bed. “I’ll ‘ead back ta the lodging house, yous ain’t gonna need me ‘gain tonight, should I tell ‘em anythin’?”

“No, I’ll deal with ‘em in the mornin’.”

Stitch nodded.

“See yous tomorrow.”

He shut the door gently.

“Spottie?” Race mumbled, reaching out for Spot.

“Yes?”

“Would ya stay?”

“I ain’t goin’ nowhere,” he promised, untying the fabric around his chest and placing it on the table as he settled down next to Race.

Race curled into him, cuddling up against his chest as Spot wrapped him into a hug. As he held him, a memory floated up. He remembered telling Race that he would protect and he didn’t just mean from Roger. He meant from everything and everyone that could hurt him.

He had failed.

The tears fell unnoticed until Race twisted, leaning up and wiping his cheeks with his thumbs.

“Talk ta me?”

“I said I would keep ya safe.” He choked on a sob. “I failed.”

“Hey, breathe.” A hand brushed away the hair that had fallen over his eye. “Ya didn’t fail, ya came ta get me and ‘m ok.”

Spot tugged Race down, suddenly desperate to hold him closer, and Race responded by wrapping his arms around his neck, burrowing his head into his shoulder.

They drifted off, their legs intertwined as they melted into each other.

————

Early the next morning, Spot found himself back in the Brooklyn lodging house, staring down four trembling figures. The fact he was away from Race whilst he was hurt had soured his mood but he took comfort in the knowledge that Race was safely back at the apartment with Flare; Thread was likely only just waking up at the Orphan Asylum after Flare had walked her back last night.

The rational part of him knew that the four boys didn’t know the whole situation and thought they were defending his honour. Therefore they should be let off without punishment.

The other part of him wanted to toss them off the Brooklyn Bridge.

He tried to push that part away for the moment.

“Ya thought Race was cheatin’, didn’t ya?”

The four nodded frantically.

“He ain’t.”

The confusion on their faces and the faces of the watching newsies made him elaborate.

“We’s all gonna be expected ta get a girl at some point. I ain’t leavin’ Race and Flare ain’t leavin’ Thread so we’d pretendin’ ta date the wrong person. Race and Thread. Me and Flare.”

The four newsies paused, clearly processing the information, then one by one, their eyes widened in panicked understanding.

“Ya know, part of me wants ta kill ya fa hurtin’ ‘im.”

He hadn’t thought was possible for the four newsies to pale anymore but they did.

“But I ain’t gonna ‘cause ya didn’t know.”

There was no sighs of relief; they weren’t that naive.

“On the other ‘and, ya shoulda brought ‘im ta me so I could soak ‘im myself.”

He made up his mind.

“So ‘eres ‘ow it’s gonna be. Yous gonna be usin’ ya free time ta do chores fa the next two weeks and today yous gonna go ta ‘Hattan and soak the Delancey Brothers.”

Confused whispers drifted up from the bunks making Spot laugh shortly.

“I’ll explain. The first part is fa ignorin’ my order ta leave Race ‘lone. If yous doin’ the chores then I ain’t chasing others ta do ‘em. The second part is yous sayin’ sorry ta Race. The Delancey Brothers keep tryin’ ta soak ‘im. Yous are gonna make ‘im leave ‘im ‘lone fa good.”

“‘Ows soakin’ people a punishment?” A voice mumbled up from the crowd.

“‘Cause theys goin’ ‘lone and ya might win but I ‘eard theys real fond of brass knuckles.”

Spot smirked as understanding flooded over the four faces.

“Off ya go.”

————

The four did make it back alive but they each sported at least one impressive bruise.

————

“Mr Hawdon?” He glanced up from his papers at Miss Lewis’ voice.

“Yes?”

“There is two newsboys here to see you. They are quite insistent that they must give their message to you directly.”

He furrowed his brow as he placed down his papers and headed for the door of his office. It was likely that their message had something to do with Race’s lateness and, considering Race had yet to be late once, he was growing concerned.

Two twins stood just inside the break room, awkwardly glancing around as his colleagues sent them less than subtle glances.

“You have a message for me?”

They narrowed their eyes as they stared at him.

“What’s the name?”

“Mr Hawdon.”

They glanced at each other, one elbowing the other until he spoke.

“Conlon sent us ta tell ya that Race ain’t gonna be in today.”

“Did he give a reason for his absence?”

They dropped their heads as they fidgeted nervously. The speaker worried at his lip, glancing desperately at the other who shrugged. The speaker spoke again.

“He got soaked.”

“Is he ok?” Shock flooded through him and he knew his panic must be visible but he didn’t care; he had grown fond of Race over the time they knew each other and, had Race not been so close to his friends, he would have insisted he enter his care a long time ago.

“He’s gonna be but he’s still too dizzy ta stand yet.”

“May I ask,” Mr Graham spoke up from one of the chairs. “What do you mean when you say soaked. I have never heard of someone becoming dizzy due to rain.”

“It means to lose a fight, correct?” Mr Hawdon directed the question towards the twins.

They nodded then paused and shook their heads.

“A soakin’ ain’t just losin’ a fight. It’s when ya get beat real bad.”

“Ya couldn’t call what ‘appened ta Race a fight. They got jumped and I ain’t sure he got more than one ‘it in.”

“You said they?”

“He ‘ad his girl with ‘im.”

“Do you know why they were jumped?”

Mr Hawdon watched as they both took a deep breathe; it was obvious that it was not random.

“Race’s girl is this real sweet girl called Thread.”

“And all of Brooklyn kinda loves havin’ ‘er ‘round.”

“We don’t see ‘er often but she like a little sista’.”

“And some of the newer fellas ain’t too ‘appy ‘bout ‘er datin’ a ‘Hattan.”

“I thought Race was considered to be Brooklyn.” Mr Hawdon broke in.

“He is ta most of us but the newer fellas don’t see why.”

“They don’t why he ain’t like any other ‘Hattan.”

“So they got real upset when Race was with Thread and they soaked ‘im ta keep ‘im away from ‘er.”

They fell silent as Mr Hawdon looked them up and down. They didn’t appear to be lying so he had no choice but to believe the story.

“Do you have his address so I may visit him myself?”

One dug his hand into his pocket and handed over a scrap of newspaper with a very carefully written, but very shaky, address on it.

“Can ya read it? Dime ain’t the best writer.”

“Ya ain’t much betta’,” Dime snapped back.

“Do not worry, I can read it quite fine.”

“See!” Dime gestured to Mr Hawdon as the other rolled his eyes.

“Come on, we’s got papes ta sell.”

They both tipped their hats and let themselves out. Mr Hawdon sighed, rubbing his forehead as he tucked the address into his pocket.

————

Mr Hawdon had never been even remotely poor, his family had far more money than they needed, but he had always made an effort to remember how lucky he was. As he trudged up the crooked stairs to Race’s apartment, he was reminded yet again of how fortunate he was. He carefully stepped over the sleeping man and the spilt drink that had slipped from his hand. He stepped to the side to allow a child to run past, barefoot as she darted down the stairs, before climbing the last few stairs to Race’s door.

He knocked twice.

The door opened to reveal a scowling women. She looked him up and down.

“Ya gotta name?”

“John Hawdon.”

She paused, a flicker of recognition sparking in her eye as she stepped back, gesturing for him to enter.

The room was pitifully small, a kitchen in one corner and a dining table in the other. Only three doorways led off from the room. Despite the building and the size, the apartment was clean and so obviously partly owned by Race.

The little objects that lay scattered across the surfaces were hardly in their commonly accepted correct places but they seemed so correct. A pack of cards sat on the table next to two newsie hats. The cigar that Race always carried sat on a little table by the door. Two paper bags lay on the floor next to it despite the hooks on the wall.

“Flare?” Spot yelled from another room.

“It’s Hawdon.” She called back, Spot appearing in a doorway as she spoke.

“Ya came,” he commented plainly.

“I wanted to make sure that Race is ok.”

“He said he don’t wanna talk ta ya.” Spot responded coldly as he brushed past him on his way to the table.

“Oh.” He didn’t know how to respond.

“Spot Conlon!” Race appeared in the doorway that Spot had just left. “That’s the opposite of what I say, ya liar.”

Mr Hawdon gasped as he took in Race’s battered form. Bandages had been wrapped around the side of his head but they did nothing to cover the magnitude of bruises that dotted their way across his face and arms. He clutched the doorframe as he spoke, swaying precarious when he went to move.

“I told ya ta stay in bed.”

“And I told ya to tell Mr Hawdon I would speak ta him but words do not seem ta matta’ today.”

He swayed heavily as he took his first step but Spot was by his side before Mr Hawdon could move to help, holding him steady as they walked over to the table. Once Race was seated, he looked sheepishly up at Mr Hawdon.

“‘M not sure that ‘m gonna be able ta work fa a few days.”

“You must not worry about that.” He shook his head as he brushed away the idea. “That hardly matters. It is far more important that you rest and recover.” He gestured to one of the five seats. “May I sit?”

“‘Course.” Race replied easily.

“Did yous get dinner?” A sweet looking women with fluffy brown hair appeared in the third doorway, tossing a towel on to a rack and closing the door behind her.

“Actually that is me, have you eaten dinner yet?” Each if the group shook their head at the question. “Well I thought that might be the case given the time so I brought some for you.”

Race took the box, a trio of heads poking over his shoulders as he revealed the still hot pie.

“Thank ya,” he smiled sincerely. “Would ya care ta stay fa dinner?”

“I do not wish to intrude.”

“Not at all. ‘Sides, ya bought it.”

Mr Hawdon glanced at each of the group, searching for any sign that he was unwelcome.

“Very well, I would love to join you for dinner.”

The room shifted into action like a well oiled machine. They effortless moved past each other despite the small space, grabbing plates and cutlery. Within the minute, the table was set and the pie served. Thread took the only other seat next to Race, Spot next to her and Flare filling the final seat between Spot and Mr Hawdon.

No one moved as Thread ducked her head, closed her eyes, and quickly mumbled something under her breath. As soon as she lifted her head, the group tucked in.

————

Mr Hawdon left Race with strict instructions not to return to work before he was better and a promise to include the days he spent off on his paycheque. As he set off into the darkening streets, he thought of the ways the group interacted.

Race and Thread always had their hands linked on the table as they laughed and joked.

Spot and Flare clearly trusted each other, sending each other silent messages but never touching.

When Spot looked at Thread and Flare looked at Race, it was with an air of amusement. They were just friends but Thread and Race were the friends who needed protection from either themselves or others.

Spot and Race were careful with their interactions just like Flare and Thread were. Someone who didn’t know what to look for would never know, of that Mr Hawdon was certain, and he had only noticed because he spent so long with them. They acted with the sort of caution he had once acted with.

A figure came into a patch of light and for a moment Thomas was there. The man took another step and he was a stranger on the street again.

He silently wondered what would have happened if they had managed to make the same arrangement that the four newsies had made.

He still remembered watching him from the crowd, looking so handsome in his spotless suit and perfectly crafted smile as he married the only woman he had ever loved. He remembered the way he explained it, that he didn’t know why he loved her when he had only ever loved men before but he knew he had to either marry her or never marry. The week after the wedding, he had jumped at the chance to run away to Brooklyn and he had met Eleanor, a girl who was searching for a friend rather than a romantic partner. She couldn’t do romance but he didn’t mind because he couldn’t either.

He opened the door, locking away the thoughts as he locked it behind him.

————

Spot aged out in the same week as Stitch and Fancy stopped working as newsies. They both had just a few weeks left and were starting their new jobs so they could rent a place before they aged out. Spot was thankful that he had no such worries, he moved in with Race and Flare and begun his job at the Brooklyn Navy Yard.

When Spot had chosen Flare as his second, he knew he would have no leader to follow him so he began to train Nickel and Dime to act both as his second after Flare aged out and to take over the throne when he aged out. They had proved themselves to be ready during the nights Spot had spent with Race, so Spot didn’t doubt his decision.

They chose Louis as their second. Spot did not disapprove of the choice, Louis had always been a fair kid and as he grew older he had become tougher but no less fair. Nickel and Dime both had two years left, leaving Louis to take the crown at the acceptable age of 16.

With the new leaders and seconds chosen, Spot was free to enjoy the Brooklyn tradition of throwing a party for the leaving leader on the evening of their birthday. The day after, they would host the same type of meetings and dinner that Manhattan had hosted when Race became King but Spot wouldn’t be in attendance so he didn’t bother thinking about it.

“Hey Spot?” Flare’s voice rose over the boisterous crowd that filled the lodging house. “Ya gonna tell us what ya put in the Key?”

The room fell quiet, or as quiet as it could be with so many excited newsies. Despite their actions, the weren’t drunk; No Drinking was one of the oldest rules of the Brooklyn newsies because so many of them had bad memories related to it.

“‘Ppose I might as well show yous now ‘stead of later.”

He popped open the compartment, holding up the key for the group to see. Murmurs of confusion prompted him to continue, flicking open the top of the cane. As he turned the key in the lock, the head of the cane loosened and fell into his palm. From the hand of the cane, he pulled a huge roll of paper.

The crowd parted as he moved towards the wall where he had hammered in two nails; he had had the day off selling to prepare everything for Nickel and Dime so his actions had gone unnoticed until now. Hanging the paper by the two nails, he stepped back to let the room examine the paper.

He had carefully drawn out every street in Brooklyn, carefully marking out every possible selling spot, each with a number between 1 and 5 next to them.

“The number shows ‘ow good the spot is.” He explained as Race returned to his side.

“Ya drew all of that?”

“It ain’t like I ain’t ‘ad time, I ‘ave been leader fa six years.”

“That is still impressive.” Spot smiled at the way Race pressed a brief kiss to his cheek, resting an arm over his shoulders in response.

“What’s this?” Either Nickel or Dime asked, pointing towards a series of instructions written in one of the buildings.

“If ya follow those instructions, ya will find some form of room or somethin’. Theys real useful when ya tryin’ ta get ‘way from the bulls.”

“Huh, guess we’d betta’ spend some time lookin’ at this,” either Nickel or Dime commented.

“I ain’t sure yous are gonna need it, ya know ‘ow ta lead, but I thought it might ‘elp some leader eventually or maybe ‘elp a newsie pick a spot.

The party continued on and it was only after the last goodbyes had been said and Spot had left, that the map was mentioned again. Race sat on the edge of his bed, occasionally helping fold a shirt, as Spot packed his belongings away in his new room.

“Spot?”

“Hmm?”

“Why did ya bother ta keep the map a secret?” Spot paused, looking up to give Race his attention. “I mean, ya coulda simply left the map in ya room, it was not so secretive that ya simply ‘ad ta hide it, was it?”

“Well, I didn’t want people ta know ‘bout one of the hidin’ places, cause Flare and Thread used it ta get time together, but other than that, yous right.” He picked up the cane and unlocked it, pulling out another piece of paper. He held the paper out for Race to take, settling on the bed next to him as an arm curled around him.

————

_If you are reading this and I am not dead, do not carry on reading._

Race raised an eyebrow, pointing at the first line.

“That don’t mean ya.” Spot sighed lightly at Race, a hint of laughter in his tone.

“Just checkin’.” Race pressed a kiss to his forehead and went back to reading.

_If I am dead, you will already know or be about to find out something rather important about me. I was not born a boy, I was born a girl but just like other newsies know they are not a girl, I know I am not a girl._

The explanation continued for a little bit before moving on.

_All I ask is that you bury me as I have always dressed and that my secret it not one that goes to my grave. Tell the rest of the newsies about me, that it is possible to be born one thing but to know that you are the other, and remind them that I was never less because of it._

_Spot Conlon_

_King of Brooklyn_

“Ya wanted everyone ta know?” Race glanced down at Spot, who was resting his head on his shoulder, silently reading along with Race.

“I can’t let people know when ‘m ‘live but if ‘m dead then sure. I want ‘em ta remember me as both the powerful Spot Conlon and as the boy who knew he wasn’t a girl. I ain’t the only one, I know it, and I don’t want the next ta feel ‘lone.” He paused. “Ya know, if somethin’ ‘ad ‘appened ta ya, I woulda added lovin’ ya ta the note.”

He smiled earnestly up at Race, earning a beaming smile.

“I love ya too, Spottie.” Race brushed a curl of hair away from Spot’s eye as he lent in, catching him in a gentle kiss. Fingers curled their way into Spot’s hair, as Race deepened the kiss.

“Race,” Spot scolded lightly as he broke back for air. “Ya ain’t gonna distract me from putting away my stuff.”

Race broke out laughing but didn’t object when Spot returned to his packing. They fell back into an easy conversation, Race occasionally throwing in random questions that hit him.

“‘Ow did ya get the cane?”

“I never told ya?” Race shook his head. “This real rich fella was gettin’ soaked by these two bastards that used ta try ta soak everyone. The fella ain’t doin’ nothin’ wrong when they jumped ‘im and they ‘ad soaked a little the week before so I put ‘em in their place. He ‘ad no money on ‘im but gave me ‘is cane as repayment. Said I could sell it if I wanted.”

“Why didn’t ya?”

“Who ain’t gonna call the bulls on a newsie sellin’ a gold cane? ‘Sides, this was just after Roger and the cane made ‘em respect me real quick.”

Race nodded in understanding, letting Spot put away his last piece of clothing before tugging him back to the bed. Within minutes, they were asleep, Spot curled up with his head on Race’s shoulder.

————

Flare groaned as she dropped into one of the chairs.

“Ya ok?” Thread asked gently as Flare dropped her head to the table.

“I ‘ate it.” She mumbled.

‘It’ was her job as a secretary but she had no need to elaborate, the trio had already heard complaints. Today it was the being inside that got to her; despite the bitterly cold weather she longed to be yelling out headlines and skidding down the icy streets rather than sitting at a desk and occasional directing someone to a room or taking a message.

“Flare, it’s barely been a week and ya ‘ate it, why don’t ya quit?” Thread’s suggestion made Flare sit up.

“I ain’t gonna be a charity case.” She huffed.

“If ya do resign, ya could become a journalist.” Flare scowled at Race.

“I ain’t a charity case.”

“‘M ‘ware of that but ya wouldn’t be becomin’ a charity case, ya would be gettin’ inta a career. Everyone at the stables took work fa bad pay just so they could say they had done it. The only difference is that they ‘ad their parents and ya ‘ave us.”

Flare looked at him, then at Thread, then at Spot.

“Ok,” she declared. “Imma quit and imma become a journalist.”

————

After dinner, Thread dragged Flare away into their bedroom. Tugging Flare down onto the bed next to her, they curled up facing each other.

“Darlin’?” Flare whispered.

“Yes?”

“Ya think ‘m makin’ the right choice?”

Thread paused, thinking.

“Yes,” she said confidently, there was not a single shred of doubt in her mind that Flare’s happiness had to come first.

Flare smiled slightly, leaning in to kiss her, brief but tender. As she broke back, they shifted so Thread could curl up with her head on her chest. She smiled at the sound of Flare’s heart, letting her eyes drift closed. She trusted Flare to wake her up before she had to leave.

————

Much to Thread’s distress, Flare exploited her newsie knowledge and reputation, selling her ability to go anywhere in New York, no matter how dangerous. Thread knew she would be ok, Flare was frankly terrifying when she fought, but on occasion she insisted that she went with Spot. Whilst Flare’s reputation could be slightly patchy, Spot’s was rock solid over the entire city and if she had to deal with a sulking Race to keep Flare safe, she would do it.

She made sure that she didn’t drag Spot away from date night again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know most of you will not have considered this important but Pitch finally won at poker and I’m proud of him.
> 
> I hope you enjoyed this chapter... just one more to go!


	16. Spring 1901

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jack has something to tell Race.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TW: None

As spring drew to an end, Thread finally aged out. She began to work for a tailor, making dresses for the rich of New York. She loved the work, she had got her name for a reason, but living with Flare was what made her happiest. Even fake dating Race wasn’t so bad, even if her colleagues were constantly insisting she could do better.

————

A knock rung out as they sat chatting after dinner. Exchanging confused looks with the trio, Race headed over to the door.

“Hey Jack.” He beamed, stepping to the side to let Jack in. Jack smiles weakly as he stepped inside. “Are ya ok?”

“Truthfully? No.” Worry flooded through Race as Jack took a deep breath. “‘M ‘ere ta say goodbye.”

“Ya leavin’?” Race bit his lip to stop the tears falling.

“I got the tickets today, ‘m leavin’ fa Santa Fe tomorrow.”

“Why?” Race knew he was crying, the tears crawled tauntingly down his cheeks, but he couldn’t move to wipe them away.

“‘Cause I ain’t got nothin’ in New York anymore. I ‘ate my job, the pay ain’t much betta’ than sellin’ papes, and the only reason fa me ta stay is the fellas. They don’t need me anymore-”

“I need ya! Ya my brudda’,” Race almost yelled.

“Race, there ain’t no reason why ya can’t come and see me. Ya bein’ paid enough ta afford it. And if I stay ‘ere, I ain’t gonna see ya anyway, ‘m gonna be too busy not starvin’.”

Jack opened his arms, letting Race barrel into him. As Jack held him close, Race broke down into sobs.

————

Race stared at the framed picture from the rally. He had kissed Spot until they gasped for breath when he had show it to him and now it sat on their bedside table. Unlike most times he looked at it, the fact that Spot had cared enough to keep it was not the main thing on his mind. Instead he was staring at Jack.

Jack was leaving.

He knew he could visit but it didn’t make the distance seem any shorter.

A sob caught in his throat and he broke down again, tears drenching the pillow as he shook with silent sobs.

A hand rested on his shoulder and for a moment Jack was there, mothering over him after he had got sick or hurt. Then the memory was gone and a voice was speaking.

“Easy Racer, ya need ta breathe.”

He pushed himself from the bed, trying to blink away the tears.

“Spottie?”

“‘M ‘ere.”

Spot was knelt beside the bed, his hand still on Race’ shoulder.

“I don’t want ‘im ta leave.”

“I know,” he said gently, wiping away his tears with a gentle swipe of his thumb. “I promise ya will see ‘im ‘gain.”

He nodded slowly, curling into a ball and resting his chin on his knees.

“Racer?”

He glanced up at Spot.

“Do ya want me ta stay with ya?”

He nodded, slowly reaching his arm out towards Spot. A calloused hand held his as Spot settled next to him. He curled into Spot’s side, an arm holding him close as the tears fell.

————

When a pair of newsies showed up looking for him with a letter from Spot Conlon, Mr Hawdon was more confused than surprised. The memory of his son telling him that the King of Brooklyn had aged out sprung up. He supposed that Spot still had more than a little influence with the newsies and so he push the topic to the back of his mind as he finally read the letter.

————

There was no one Jack recognised on the platform as he got onto the train and he was relieved, he was barely holding himself together as it was. He found his seat, placing his bag securely between his feet, and glanced out of the window.

Race was there.

He didn’t think he would be. He knew Davey would be in school, he couldn’t simply skip, and Crutchie would be out selling, he couldn’t miss the busiest part of the day, and surely Race should be at work. But he wasn’t. He was there.

He wasn’t running for the train, he was simply watching, Spot’s arm over his shoulders. They made eye contact and Race waved. Jack waved back and the train began to pull out of the station.

He slumped back in his seat as Race vanished from view.

He opened his bag, shifting through the letter writing supplies he had bought the day before until he found the most important piece of paper he owned. On it, he had carefully written out Race’s address and the address of the lodging house so he could send letters to Crutchie. He turned it over, staring at Davey’s address.

They were friends so he would still write to him. He didn’t resent him, Davey felt what he felt, but it didn’t make it hurt less.

With a silent promise to send at least one letter a week to each of them, Jack tucked the paper back into his bag and settled in for the long journey.

He would miss Davey and he would miss his brothers but he wasn’t worried about them. Davey would head off to a college somewhere and get some fancy job. Crutchie would stay at the lodging house until he inevitably found a job as some form of teacher. And Race would definitely rise up the ranks at the races until he was earning more than Jack ever would but, even if he didn’t, he had Flare and Thread and, most importantly, he had Spot.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And there we have it! Thank you so much for reading as well as leaving kudos and comments!
> 
> Check out my writing tumblr if you want to :)  
> It is: 2amwritingaddictactuallywrites

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you so much for reading! I really hope you enjoyed and everything is already written so I will upload the next part when I have time and WiFi.
> 
> Also yes I am aware that I am ignoring the structures of the lodging houses so let me explain: if it is in the movie or stage show, I kept it. If it is not, it is as historically correct as I could make it.
> 
> If anyone has a list of newsies ages for either 1992 or the musical, please comment a link because I was looking for their ages for hours! Then I made them fit what I wanted anyway so that was a waste o_o...
> 
> For people like me who like learning about random stuff or want historically accurate information for writing canon stories, I have a book on my page full of all my research: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26849818
> 
> Thank you again for reading!


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